


Come Back, Be Here

by potatoesarenotforsex



Category: Phan, Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF), Video Blogging & YouTube RPF
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Angst, M/M, Mystery, Phan AU, Secret Identity, Suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-06
Updated: 2014-05-08
Packaged: 2017-12-14 03:10:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 25,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/832021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potatoesarenotforsex/pseuds/potatoesarenotforsex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when everything you thought was meant to last forever is torn apart overnight? </p><p>Dan is gone and Phil can't work out what's going on, or why his life seems to be falling apart in the wake.. </p><p>(Currently under revision, new chapter March 2016)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You Said It In A Simple Way

Phil wakes up to an empty bed.

His hands slide across the cool, flat surface of the distant side of their bed. Somewhere between the flickering of his heavy eyelids and his toes squirming further into the warm furrows of the warmest pocket of the sheets, Phil realizes that an empty bed means that Dan is not in the bed, which means that Dan is elsewhere.

It’s not an absolutely impossible situation, or even highly unusual- sometimes Dan does get up earlier than him, or (more likely) stays up impossibly late, falling asleep in some early hour of the morning, awkwardly curled in an embrace around his laptop, propped up on the couch.

Reluctantly squinting into the darkness of the room, Phil rolls over to hide his face once more in the forgivingly soft fabric of a pillow. Stretching out across the mattress, he reaches down to pull the covers a little higher around his neck, not wanting the day to begin just yet. The bed is too comfortable and the sunlight is too bright- and just maybe he could deal with waking up if he wasn’t alone in the venture.

“Dan?” He calls out. The rasp of his voice grates against the still room.

There’s no response, and so he tries again, a little louder;

“Daaan?”

His query is met only by silence. Phil wraps one arm around his warm pillow, attempting to consider the likelihood that Dan has gone down to the shops (which is fairly low- he is usually even more attached to staying in bed than Phil is), the hazy heaviness of the morning slowly overcoming him until moments later, he is fast asleep once again.

When he jolts awake abruptly two hours later, the sunlight is steadily shining across his bed and the house is quiet. There’s no precise reason he can pin his anxiety against, but with a surge of adrenaline, he bolts out of bed and runs to the couch, and then the spare bedroom, the kitchen, anywhere Dan might be. But, he’s no where to be found. Their apartment is not that large and moments later he can be sure Dan is not home.

Checking his phone, there are no messages from Dan, aside from the one he sent two days ago, when he was heading home and wanted to know if they needed more milk. A minute later and he can be certain that there’s no missed calls, no facebook messages, nothing on Dan’s tumblr, nothing at all.

That’s when he begins to panic.

Heading back to their room, he quickly sends messages out to their closest friends, asking if they knew were Dan was or when they'd last heard from him. As he pulls on jeans and a shirt, the replies come rolling in on his phone, some confused, others concerned. The two of them had spent the previous day together, and no one had had any contact from Dan later than last night. His phone still buzzing with new messages, Phil pulls on a jacket and only just remembers to write a short note for the kitchen bench, asking Dan to call him when he gets home, and then he heads out, locking the apartment door behind him.

Between cafes and shops, tube stations and parks, several hours slip by as Phil journeys haphazardly across town. He can’t afford to forget a single place where Dan might be and more often than not finds himself doubling back on his path to check that one spot in the library, that little pub where they’d once sheltered from the rain, that gaming shop where they’d waited for a midnight release- anything he could find that he could link to Dan, to them. It’s not difficult. He can hear their leisurely ambling on the cobbled streets, their entwined fingers catching on the street signs, their giggled echoing down the twisting alleyways of the city. London is littered with their memories.

As he walks, he exchanges messages and ideas with PJ and Chris; them suggesting spots they’d shared with Dan, Phil trying to find the words to convince them that there was no real reason to be concerned. Somewhere in the conversation he begins trying to convince himself that this isn’t just a mistake, and he ends up shoving the phone in his back pocket, the constant buzz of incoming messages silenced in attempt to swallow down the burning regret he feels as he is notified instantly that each one isn’t Dan.

It’s several hours later that he finally makes it back to their street. He’s windswept, exhausted and beyond distraught. A final faint ember of hope sparks as he pushes open the door, praying for Dan’s confused face to pop up from behind the couch, for his slanted grin and bemused chuckle – but it’s just as silent, just as empty, as when he’d left.

Falling back onto the couch, Phil’s hands clench into fists, slamming down against the cushion of the seat, with a strangled cry of frustration. They stay there as he catches his breath from the stairs, racking his mind to remember the last things Dan had said to him the night before, as they’d prepared for bed, trying to think of anything strange, anything different. He has a sudden though to try contact Dan’s parents, but at the notion of explaining to them the events of the morning, his fingers can’t quite manage the motions to pull up their phone number.

The knock at the door jolts him from the mess of his thoughts. Phil stands hurriedly, tripping over his own feet in his haste to get to the door, his phone falling off his lap and onto the floor with a noisy clatter. He bolts down the hallway, fingers closing around the door knob, wrenching it open.

Chris is standing there. Lanky, ever-clowning Chris; he’d hoped for a fleeting moment that this was a sign that the entire morning had been his anxiety playing with him and that this was all a joke- Dan would be at the door with a convoluted explanation and a laughing smile. But the look on Chris' face only made him feel worse than he had moments earlier, particularly as Chris let himself in and took Phil solemnly to the couch, in a very un-Chris-like manner.

It’s an awkward scene; neither looking the other in the eye or saying anything. The uneasy quiet reigns, until Chris nervously clears his throat, and then asks if Phil has eaten anything yet.

'No?' Phil is surprised by how hoarse his own voice sounds. 'Is that important?'

Chris looked conflicted and makes as if to stand up, with the excuse of, 'I'll make you a sandwich or something, shall I?'

But Phil grabs his arm before he can leave, pulling him back down onto the couch with a firm hold and a solemn gaze.

'You know something.' It isn’t a question; it’s a statement, a demand.

Chris looks uneasy, 'I think you need to have some food in you before we talk any further- you must be completely drained, Carrie said you've been all over town-'

'Tell me.'

Phil's stare is cool, but his eyes yearn with hungry desperation. Knowing that he has no other options now, Chris reaches into his pocket, pulling out a scrap of paper with a scrawled message on one side.

'I found this at my door this morning, it wasn't there last night when I got home, he must have slid it under the door or something…'

Phil grabs the paper, turning it over in his fingers to see that the other side is the title page to Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, with ‘Daniel Howell’ neatly printed in the handwriting of a much younger boy on the top right-hand corner. Looking up at Chris, bewildered, Phil turns it over again and reads the scrawled words:

_Going away for a bit. Please don't follow me, I'll just move_

_If you really need me:_

_Chelsea Highline Hostel_  
_184 11th Avenue_  
_New York_

_Dan_

Phil can feel his entire body freeze. It is definitely Dan's handwriting.

New York?

He flips the page over again, and again - if Dan was going away, he would have to give some explanation as to why he'd left, how long he'd be gone, why he hadn't said a word to Phil- why he hadn't taken Phil with him.

'I'm so sorry Phil..' Chris’ arm extends hesitantly, and he rests what is intended as a comforting hand on Phil's shoulder, but Phil hardly seems to notice. His eyes are still scanning over the words before him; _going away– don’t follow me_ – _New York_.

He doesn’t even realise that he’s crying until Chris presses a tissue into his hand. He brings his clammy fingers up to touch the hot tears trailing down his cheeks, their grief so much clearer than anything he can put words to. He stays there, tucking up his knees, curling up into the corner, in Dan’s spot. Dan, who had been right _here_ , slouched across the couch, laptop resting on his thighs and a smirk lazing across his lips, only yesterday. But today, Phil buries the side of his face into the cool leather of the couch alone, his limbs trembling and his mind racing.

And so, Phil sits on the couch and waits. He hardly notices Chris pulling a sheet over him, murmuring words of comfort. The apartment grows dark as day turned to night, but Phil doesn’t move, the note clenched tightly in his hand, his eyes wide and haunted.

 

 

 

 

 


	2. And I Break Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [or: One Month and Two Letters Later..]

Dear Dan

Hi! Wow it still feels strange to be writing you a letter… I guess we only ever talked in person or online, remember that day where we only talked to each other with animal noises? That was practically impossible… and it feels like forever ago! I guess it was.

Anyway, how are you going! I hope you're having fun in New York, if you're still there. I have been sending all my letters there so I sure hope you've been getting them, there have been some serious handwriting efforts! I mean, there were drawings and everything. We've all been writing to the address you left with Chris, I hope you've gotten at least some of these, or that if you've moved they've forwarded them to you! Money must be super tight, I know that mail can get expensive when it's international but we'd all love just a note letting us know how you're going what you're up to! We all miss you.

I never asked for any explanation in any of my other letters, but I suppose it would seem kind of strange if I didn't wonder why you left? I know you had planned to go back to the states for vidcon with all of us, but that's half a year away and we always go together. I don't know.. was it something I did? Because if it was I'll change anything you want, or do anything- even if you just want to never see me again! I can do that.. but I just wish I knew what it was Dan, I can't stop wondering why you just left..

I don't really have any news! I'm sorry if you've been waiting for me to post a video, I keep meaning to but it all sort of gets too hard, maybe we'll do a big return one together once you're back? I've gotten so many messages asking when we'll be back, everyone really misses you Dan.

I hope you can find a way to write back, or give us a call? I put our address and my number on the back, in case for some reason you couldn't find them and that's why you haven't been in touch, and the other letters didn't reach you. I really hope you'll call soon.

I miss you so much.

Love

Phil

—-

Hey Dan

I miss you! I guess you must have needed some time away but…

Okay I'm just going to be blunt here. Phil is falling apart. He doesn't do anything, if you have Internet where you are you'll see he hasn't posted anything anywhere since you left. He just sits on the couch, eats when we make him and writes letters to you. What happened?

Chris showed me the letter you left, real nice of you- did you think you could just piss off like that? We're your friends, all of us, and you left basically with no warning, for no clear reason..

I am guessing you do have your reasons, fine, but even if you had some need to run away from everything here, friends included, you had no right not to tell Phil. He's broken and it's all your fault.

I dunno… I can't think why you'd do it… I'm trying not to be angry at you- I wasn't at first! People need to do things and that's cool, but you could have at least left some word of why for Phil. You guys are, well, you! That's pretty shitty Dan, you didn't even give him your address, you left it with Chris? Did you think he wouldn't show Phil? Did you think Phil would just move on, be fine without you?

Call him. Or at least send a note, something, but send it to Phil this time? Everyone can be scared and be cowardly, but you really do owe him that.

Alex


	3. This Is When the Feeling Sinks In

Dan walks down 11th Avenue, his coat pulled firmly around himself as a chilly breeze blows past him. Looking up at the hostel front door, he's thinking about how easy it would be to walk in, head to the concierge and ask if there is any mail for Dan Howell. He has his identification, they'd give it to him easily enough, and then he could-

What? Read the letters?

He had vowed to sever his connections with London entirely, it seemed foolish not to leave an address but the torrents of mail that followed meant it had to move, it was too hard not to just open up the letters that slid into his mail box almost every day; the familiar scrawl of Phil's handwriting on the address was enough to make him want to spend the rest of the night crying, and so he packed his things, paid for the rest of the month and, when asked, didn't provide a forwarding address for any mail.

Shoving his hands further into his pockets, his eyes stinging, he forces himself, like every morning, to keep walking past the funny old hostel, past his old life. He has made a promise to himself and it was for the best. For everyone.

He turns the corner and it's a busy road and he is free from his thoughts once again. It's funny how he choses to walk this way to work every day. Yes, it is the shortest route, but he could always just go around the longer way, it hardly saves two minutes of his time- but there's something about reminding himself why he's here, why he's doing this, that makes this path so important. He's come so close to packing his things and flying back home more times than he cares to remember, and if this keeps him from being a coward and giving in, he'll go through the torture every day.

Walking up to the supermarket, Dan clips his nametag onto his uniform shirt, running one hand through his short blonde hair. Peering into the reflective glass of the window, he can see at least half an inch of dark regrowth, some new bleach will have to be bough soon, maybe time for cutting some more off. He was worried about how he'd hide effectively, but short, blonde hair makes him almost unrecognizable, and the one time a girl looking for cheese pointed out that he looked 'like that British YouTube guy who lives with his friend', he managed to convince her she was mistaken.

The accent has taken some time to perfect, but after two months, no one even asks him where he's from anymore. In fact, he spent the first week mimicking others he heard speaking, while he wasn't looking for a job. It was hard at first, responding to the name Robert and remembering to put on the accent, keep a low profile, not make any friends… but by now he's used to it. Every morning he puts on his uniform, his accent, and his college dropout backstory and makes the twenty minute walk to where he worked every day.

It is a fairly simple job- stack shelves, clean up mess so people don't fall over, put misplaced items back where they belong, aid lost customers... The manager had been so pleased when 'Robert' had said he was free to work all day, any day, but Dan had subsequently been disappointed to find himself only scheduled on four days of the week, leaving three other days he needed to find something to do with.

Grabbing a box of crisps and heading down to aisle four, Dan reflects on how much he used to despise working here. He was constantly in fear of being recognized and lived for the time when his shift would come to an end. But that soon changed.

Dan learnt very quickly that being at work surrounded by people and tasks, with a manager watching your every move, was a far kinder prospect than the emptiness of his apartment and the silence which greeted him after work. He's managed to convince the manager to give him more shifts, so now the day only he wakes up, anxiously fearing every hour he had to sit alone, are Mondays; his day off.

He would give anything to not stay alone all day. But he had to, this was what he'd chosen to do and he wanted to do. As he starts to fill the shelf with the different flavours, in the corner of his vision he spots someone walking past the end of the aisle with straight black hair and pale skin. Forcing himself not to glance back, or walk down to the end of the aisle to check, he picks up the next packet of crisps and places it on the shelf.

This happened maybe three times a day- sometimes it was the hair, other days it was someone with a similar purple shirt. The first week he almost had a heart attack every time, thinking it was Phil and unsure whether to run and hide and pray he'd not been seen, or to go over and hug him as if nothing had changed and pray he'd be forgiven. But by now it is much less of a surprise, just a moment of hope, a moment where his heart races and a small smile sneaks its way onto his face, before he has to steel himself, turn to the task at hand and act as if he isn't constantly searching for the one person he misses the most.


	4. The Feeling You Can Know So Much

It's barely four in the afternoon but the few streets between the bus stop and the apartment are already bathed in semi-darkness, the chilling breeze somehow still biting through Phil's thick coat. In his mind (because his mind manages to still always be drifting towards Dan), he imagines Dan is somewhere warm, lounging in a t-shirt and commenting on how dark his skin has tanned.

It's a nice memory, Italy with PJ and Chris. The days were filled with sunshine, water, laughter and the ease of good company. With a half-hearted smile, Phil rustles through his bag for the key, remembering the way Dan would rest, floating on the clear blue water; if he couldn't be here, with Phil, then Italy is where Dan should be.

Perhaps on another night he might have been fortunate enough to be noisy and noticeable, but on this dreary afternoon, Phil slips into the apartment with barely a whisper, so the two figures clad in black approaching from the adjacent lane don't even see him enter.

_They've just scouted out the perimeter and are returning to the target site, satisfied with their inspection and prepared to commence the mission._

_It was hardly as if this was a challenge to either party._

_They had both been trained for more than a decade now for precisely this purpose, and they had infiltrated far more complex situations than the apartment of two young men. They moved seamlessly, predicting and anticipating the actions of each other, based on paired training and years of experience in the field as a team. It was a little strange for such an elite pair to be working an urban case, but the target had been sent to them specifically, and they knew better than to disobey direct orders._

_Perhaps their downfall was the simplicity of the task, no murder, no captives; no one could know they'd been there. One apartment in the middle of London and it was nothing more than a grab and run, something they both saw as beneath them._

_Pulling out a small black pouch containing the equipment to pick the door's look, barely leaving a scratch, the taller of the pair waves a hand at their partner, indicating he should keep watch._

Phil hums aimlessly to himself as he unwraps the rice packet, cutting along the line and shoving it into the microwave. As the light flickers on and the coloured bag beings to rotate before his eyes, Phil suddenly notices a scratching noise. Not quite scratching, no, but the sound of metal.

He hits the cancel button, concerned that there might be a fault in the microwave, but in the abrupt silence immediately locates the strange noise as coming from the front door.

His eyes dart to the sliver of sunlight at the end of the door and widen as they watch two shadows move slightly- _feet_ , his brain screams, _feet or knees, that means person, in London, didn't press the doorbell, come on Phil-_

He scrambles to the nearest room, dropping his fork as he runs, and swiftly closes the door behind him, trying to stay quiet. It seems a bit pointless, because anyone robbing his house must be able to hear his heart pounding against his ribcage, but the adrenaline tells him to keep quiet, and so he does.

The front door creaks open (just like it used to when Dan would arrive home later than him, before they were good, stinking of alcohol but still trying not to wake Phil) and he steps backwards. The frame of a bed knocks against his knees and he's in Dan's room, with the duvet where he left it- no one has slept here for more than a year. Moving as silently as he can, Phil lifts the corner of the sheets and slides himself beneath the bed frame, pressing his back against the cold floor boards and letting out the long sigh he didn't realise he was holding.

Don't move. Don't make a sound.

His hand is less disciplined and reaches out in the darkness of his closed eyes (feels safer) to grasp at fabric- silky material- Dan's boxers? He almost laughs but pauses with his mouth half open.

_It takes them less than a minute to cleanly pick the lock, and even less than that to find the target's laptop. Stowing it in an unmarked black backpack, the team moves on. The first door opens to a bedroom and the photo on the desk tells them they're found the right one. Too easy._

Phil tries not to gasp when they open the door and walk in, but he's sure he must have reacted audibly in some way. There are footsteps and movements but everything is delicate and quiet and they must know he's here. His foot twitches and suddenly his leg seizes up in cramps, pain shooting up his thigh, his face contorting into a grimace, teeth clamped together as if the tighter he squeezes them, the sooner the pain will end. His hand shifts again, unintentionally, and falls upon a cardboard box, with a soft, dull thud. Phil blinks and is completely still, everything else forgotten in an instant.

_They are pulling out the drawers of the desk when they hear two noises, the first nearby and concerning, and the second even more so- a doorbell, followed by the scrape of a key. The drawers are closed and the books restacked in a matter of seconds and they are out the window before the door has clicked shut behind the intruder._

"Phil? You home? I brought some milk!" He can hear PJ's voice but can't convince himself to move. He also heard the window open and close, but this apartment is on the seventeenth floor. It's not until he hears the door open a few minutes later and PJ's voice somewhere above him that he dares to make a move.

"Phil? I saw your phone outside this room, what's going on?"

"Are they gone?"

PJ kneels and lifts up the corner of the duvet, only to see Phil's feet as he crawls out on the other side. They meet on the bed and before he let's PJ ask anything else, Phil dumps the cardboard box on the bed between them.

Underneath a thick sheet of dust, the box is black, slightly larger than a shoebox, with metal reinforcements on each corner. The lid fits snugly and is lifted off to reveal sheets of paper, bound together and sorted into manila folders. Phil opens the first one and pulls out a page, reading the contents aloud.

" _Daniel Howell is moving to Manchester at the end of Grade 8 with his family. His father has received a promotion that offers the family greater financial prospects and Daniel will attend the local secondary school. He will not be enthusiastic about sports or anything that requires a demonstration of physical exertion_."

The page was lowered in shaking hands to the bed once more and finally Phil looked up and met PJ's confused expression with matching bewilderment.

"Do you have any idea what this is?"

PJ shook his head, taking the page from Phil, squinting to read the fine print. Phil didn't move, his hands fisting into the sheets as he fought back against his watering eyes.


	5. Without Knowing Anything At All

It's some time after 1am but no one has checked the clock for a while now. They are sitting around the dining table- Phil, PJ, Chris, Carrie, Alex and Charlie (it is their house after all), the contents of the black box spread between them. Every now and then one of them speaks, prompting mild responses from the others, but over the long evening, the novelty of the strange documents has turned to wary discomfort.

"Listen to this- _Daniel's grandmother was the third of three sisters, whose parents ancestors sailed over from France prior to the second uprising in 1830. She worked as a secretary in a bank until she met her father's tailor and her future husband._ The thing is, I remember Dan saying he had French family, said it's why he was so good at it in school… but look it says here, _despite this Daniel's French language skills are limited as his grandmother insisted her children spoke only English,_ so that doesn't make sense!" Alex tosses the file into the centre with the other read and discarded items.

Charlie, returning from the kitchen with a tray of precariously balanced, steaming mugs, catches the end of his sentence.

"None of it makes sense, why does he need all of this? It's not like it's a family project or something, there are hundreds of pages!"

"Hardly a family project-" Chris grabs a mug in one hand, a paper in the other, " _Daniel is reluctant to mention his primary school years, a quiet disposition may suggest bullying in primary school, although he will never fully admit to ever being bullied prior to whatever occurs in secondary years-_ there is no way Dan wrote this himself. What even _is_ this?"

He takes a sip and spits the near-boiling liquid out onto the nearest sheets. Seizing the chance for distraction, everyone in the room rushes over and reaches for the pages, sponging off the brown tea marks with tissues, remarking on Chris' clumsy nature, as PJ collects some cool water from the kitchen to sooth the burnt tongue.

"It's his life," he says calmly, passing the glass to a mournful, grateful Chris, "It's everything that is Dan, all written down in funny little folders, it's like-"

Phil cuts across him, his voice uncharacteristically deep.

"It's like a reference. In case he ever forgot anything." He slumps forwards onto the table, fingers tangled in black hair and eyes wearily re-reading the words in front of them.

-TO BE VIEWED BY ARTEMIS AND SUBSEQUENTLY DESTROYED-

After a moment he passes it around, ignoring their exclamations and quizzical expressions. PJ suggests trying to track down Artemis, perhaps he would know where Dan had disappeared to, Alex disagrees, suggests that Artemis is gathering data on Dan against his will, but Phil ignores them all, trying to focus on the facts and failing to forget that this was Dan, this was his Dan. His Dan, who had a box that contained his life, under the bed they'd once shared. His life in a box, for handy reference, almost as if…

"It's him. It's Dan."

Charlie looks up, his voice the painful tone of helpfulness that the others had managed to shake off but ever-sympathetic Charlie couldn't quite manage.

"Who's Dan?"

Phil stands up, walks over to the counter and pulls on his coat and gloves. The others also stand, startled by his sudden movement. As he makes his way to the door, Carrie finds the sense to dart over and stand in front of him.

"Phil. Where are you going? It's," she glances over to check the clock, "It's 2:30 in the morning!"

Phil's eyes are wild and bright and he is more alive than he's been in weeks.

"It's Dan." He repeats and then steps around Carrie and out the door, disappearing into the streets.

* * *

Carrie stands at the door, watching Phil's figure walk furiously down the front path and onto the street. She hesitates for only a moment, before pulling her coat off the rack and tossing her bag over her shoulder.

"Wait!" Alex moves behind her, Chris following suit, "I'm coming too." The rest all indicate their agreement, collecting warmer clothes and phones.

"NO!" She doesn't mean to yell so loud and seeing their startled faces, Carries lowers her voice, reaching out with her hand. "I mean, let's not all rush him. I'll go and I'll text to let you know if you should follow." She starts opening the door when Alex steps forward to put his hand on her shoulder.

"It's not safe at this time to be on the streets alone, let me come, please." His smile is so kind and his eyes so caring that she can't help but smile back herself. But she shakes her head, blonde curls bouncing around her shoulders.

"Don't worry, I won't be alone."

* * *

The park is only ten minutes walk from the Cherimon house and she's walking swiftly against the icy night's breeze so arrives there in even less time. Phil is just where she expects to find him, sitting on the swing (the left one, the right one was always a little closer to the gate and Dan would run there first, jumping on with joyful screeches at his victory), swinging back and forth, only slightly, legs hanging limp from the rubber seat and his arms twisted around the chains.

His eyes remain downcast, even as Carrie approaches and sits herself down in front of him. Her eyes flicker to the empty swing next to him, then back to Phil, and they remain there, Carrie's patience silently digging into Phil's shell, coaxing him back to her.

Finally he looks up and it's all she can do not to breath and audible sigh of relief. She allows herself a moment to notice the tears, still shining on his cheeks, his red nose, the way his hands are almost white from clenching too tightly to the metal.

"It's okay to be sad Phil, you don't have to hide from us." She pauses, her words hanging awkwardly between them.

She'd aimed for comforting, but watching his lower lip disappear beneath his gnawing teeth, she feels hugely unsuccessful. Suddenly he laughs, a raw rasp, and wipes the eyes with the back of his hand.

"You don't think I know that? What do you think I've been doing for the past three months Carrie? I don't know if there's any sad left in me." His hand clenches the chain once more, his voice rising with each phrase.

"I was so sad, I am- I'm broken, didn't you notice? Nothing's putting it all back together, no magical switch… but you know, I thought he might just be able to do it? I thought-"

He jumps forward off the swing, striding past Carrie, who silently turns, following him, as he starts to pace before her. She can almost see his brain churning as his jaw tightens and his steps hasten.

"I can be sad. I can do that," He laughs bitterly, "It feels like I've been sad forever, but you know what, Carrie? I've never been mad at him; I've never felt mad or angry at Dan, not once." A harsh sob slips past his lips as he pivots, continuing his march back and forth on the tanbark.

"I've hated the fact that we were apart, I've wished with all my strength that I knew where he was, why he left, how to make it all better again," He exhales heavily, flinging his arms upwards and twisting his fingers through his hair. "But until today I couldn't feel angry, I could only hope that he was coming back." He pauses, face turned, his words dissolving into shaking sobs. Carrie can hear him sniffling, dabbing his nose with his sleeve. She decides to try again.

She stands, slowly, noticing his shoulders tense when she takes a step his way. Stopping, she coughs slightly. "It's okay to be angry Phil, you have every right to be! I may be the newest around here but Dan-"

"DON'T tell me what's okay." He turns around, eyes red and brimming with tears. Carrie trembles but holds her ground as he marches forward, words spitting violently from his usually gentle lips. "Don't do that, don't you dare. It's like you're all blind or something! Don't you see? Don't you think?"

He's standing right in front of her, she can almost see her own reflection in his wide blue eyes, but she's completely at a loss.

"Please, Phil..." She starts, but her hesitation rings clear in her unsteady voice.

"Don't. Don't tell me it's okay, it's not." Phil's eyes fall to the ground and his voice drops so low she can barely hear his next words. "It's all a lie Carrie, everything. That's me, that's everything I am, I was-" He looks up again, nearly hitting her face with the sudden movement. " _He_ was everything, and he- Dan, it's all a lie." Phil grabs her hand and Carrie twitches at the contact but her gaze remains steady.

"He's a lie, our life is all built on a lie, stored neatly in a cardboard box. So yes, It's _okay_ to be angry, and I'm so fucking angry, believe me I am. But it's not okay, I can't do this-"

His sentence is choked out by the hiccups of his weeping and it's then that Carrie reaches out, circling his waist with strong, warm arms. Phil falls onto her, burying his head into her shoulder. Her shoulder is soon soaked with his tears and her back aches under the weight of his body resting on her but she doesn't move, just strokes his back in soothing circles and holds him close while he rests his broken heart for a moment.


	6. If I Had Known

It's probably morning and no longer night by the time they make it back to the house, arms linked and exhausted. In the dim lights of the street lamps, Carrie sneaks sideways looks at Phil, but gets no answers aside from weary smiles of reassurance that don't quite reach his eyes. The grass is wet with condensation and they leave their boots at the front door, opening the door quietly and creeping inside, as the lights are not on in the main room and everyone appears to have retreated to bed, the form of the black box barely visible in the glow of the moonlight.

Carrie gives Phil a firm hug, feeling a little uncomfortable that no one stayed up for them, but considering the time of day and how tired everyone must be, she tries to push these negative thoughts aside. He insists on sleeping on the couch (PJ and Chris might be happy to share the small bed in the guest room but three would really be pushing it) and Carrie bids him goodnight, planting a soft kiss on his cheek, which seems to make him smile a little more.

The stairs creak awfully, even if this is a new apartment, and it takes her an age to get to the top without waking everyone up. Too drained to even change her clothes, she makes her way down to the end of the hall, grinning at the prospect of sharing the big king bed with her two favourite boys.

Later on, she'll look back at this moment and realise that she should have known something was wrong- Charlie's pyjamas were still thrown on the bathroom floor, the silence was lacking the usual rumble of Alex's snores, but as she walks, there is nothing on her mind but the soft embrace of a bed and the prospect of a better tomorrow for them all. And so, it is not until she reaches the bedroom and blindly makes her way to the bed, that she notices the lack of bodies in the bed, the cool welcome of unused sheets, the absence of the shallow exhalations of sleep. It takes her a whole minute to consolidate this fact in her mind before she suddenly jolts upright and darts from the bed, not bothering to be quiet as she flicks on the light switch and confirms her suspicions. The bed is empty.

"Phil!" She calls his name continually as she runs down the hall then the stairs, and he meets her at the last step, grabbing her shoulders.

"They're not there." Her voice is high-pitched and she coughs once, then tries again. "Charlie and Alex, they're not in their bed, have you seen Chris or PJ yet?" Phil shakes his head and they both stumble through the dark to the guest bedroom, before switching on the light to discover the bed was made and unused.

Phil feels a cold dread setting over him. It's happening again and this time it's all of them, gone in the middle of the night without a word. What if he and Carrie hadn't left? Would they have gone too? There's no sign of a note, yet… Taking a deep breath, Phil steels himself. Carrie is shaking beside him and he winds an arm around her shoulders and squeezes. He needs to be strong, stronger than he feels, if not for himself then for her; he's no use as a mournful mess now.

Trying to find the right words to comfort her, Phil is about to suggest they make a cup of tea when suddenly Carrie stiffens and grabs Phil's hand so tightly that her fingernails dig painfully into his skin. Her eyes wide, she leans in close and whispers, "Can you hear that?"

Phil closes his eyes and listens. He hears something, voices? Before he can say anything, Carrie drags him to the staircase, muttering something about nowhere being safe; they got the others, when he suddenly tugs on her arm, stopping her.

"Where are you going? Let's just wait here and see what happens." His tone is scathing and he doesn't even bother keeping his voice quiet and Carrie claps a hand over his mouth, raising her eyebrows in indignation.

"Phil! There is someone at the front door. You can hear them, yes?" He nods once. "Okay. So we don't know what's going on with our friends and there are people," There are suddenly scraping noises at the front door and Carrie gulps, "There are people breaking into the house so you are going to shut up and-" There is a loud clunk and the door handle begins to rattle. Pulling Phil along behind her, Carrie darts into the next room and ducks under the table, shuffling forwards on her knees so they are both obscured by the thick cotton tablecloth.

They came to a rest in the middle of the table not a moment too soon, as there was a click and the door creaked open. Carrie lifted her hand off Phil's mouth, pulling him close to her side as they tried their best to breath quietly.

Loud footsteps sounded, coming closer and closer to the table, before coming to a halt right in front of their hiding place. Carrie's hair is brushing the side of Phil's neck and it's all he can do not to reach up and brush it away or move slightly to the left, but he doesn't dare risk making their presence known.

"I can't believe we left this, Boss would be so pissed if he found out!" The first voice has a rough, Scottish accent and his friend does too.

"Well good thing he ain't going to find out, 'innit! Bloody kids were stronger than we was told they'd be, they cant blame us for having to do two trips!" There is a small noise as the box is lifted off the table and opened to ensure the contents are still there. These men are completely different to the one's Phil encountered before, they lack in finesse and competence. One of the sets of footsteps starts to walk away, but the other calls back to his partner- "What about those shoes them? I'm telling you, they weren't here when we came before."

There is an exasperated sigh from near the front door. "Forget about those bloody shoes! This house is all messy- we were a bit occupied last time! It's nearly four and people are already awake, we musn't be seen, remember? They said that's the most important!" The man near the table makes a noncommittal noise but joins him at the door and a few moments later the door is closed, locked, and the footsteps fade out of earshot.

Phil counts to thirty seconds before deciding to move. Remaining silent, he motions for Carrie to stay put and slowly lifts up the edge of the tablecloth, peering out into the dim. He can't see anything (or anyone) and so he moves out from under the table, making his way to the window. Through the gap in the blinds he spots a large, black van speeding off down the street. With a sigh, he opens the front door quickly to see no one walking or driving left on the street and, closing it again, calls out to Carrie.

"They're gone, you can come out now."

She crawls out, her white face matching Phil's, and quickly rushes over to join him. He can see that her hand is shaking slightly but smiles with pride when she speaks to him with a firm, determined voice.

"Someone is apparently after us, all of us. We need to leave, now."


	7. What I Know Now

They don't have any idea how long it might be before someone comes back, so they work swiftly. Carrie starts in the bedroom and, pulling out a large duffle bag, tries to find some dark, inconspicuous clothing to put in it. Unfortunately, not one single item of Alex's fits this description, and so she is limited to Charlie's clothing, which are also quite bright and colourful. Eventually she finds two grey t-shirts and some spare jumpers and shoves them in the bag, along with deodorant, socks and a cap she found at the bottom of Alex's drawers. Into plastic bags she puts Charlie's light, travel laptop and charger, as well as an iPhone charger to share. She also pulls a green beanie over her strikingly curly hair, remembering how easy it was for her friends to identify her from a distance by the blond mass.

Meanwhile, Phil ransacks the kitchen for portable meals; cans, biscuits, packaged treats all end up in a plastic bag which he leaves on the main table for Carrie to pack, along with two bottles of water. After a moment's thought, he pulls the blue, mohair rug off the couch and leaves that on the table too. They have their coats but it's nearly December and they have no idea what they're doing once they've left the house. It can't hurt to be prepared.

Feeling a little guilty for stealing from his friends, Phil then searches around to find any money. When he finds Alex's wallet, he decides to leave the bank cards (people always seem trace those in movies) and takes all the cash, which is £150. It's enough to start on, and he manages to scrounge up around £60 from the pockets of coats and the bottom of backpacks. Making a mental note of how much he's taken so that one day he can pay his fiends back (the possibility of not being able to pay them back is too daunting for him to deal with at the moment), he shoves the money in his wallet, which he puts into the inner pocket of his coat. Getting pickpocketed is always a risk in London, but they can't afford to lose what they have this time, not when they've already lost so much.

He meets Carrie at the back door, a forest green beanie somehow concealing all of her hair. She passes him a cap and he raises his eyebrows but pulls it over his hair. He'd never wear such a thing normally, which Phil concedes really is the point of disguising yourself, but he still cringes when he catches sight of himself in the mirror. It's strange, but somehow he is able to do all this. He can turn off the hurt and confusion and just focus, be logical- go on the run? Just as long as he doesn't think.

"Hey," Carries voice is a soft embrace and he realizes neither of them have spoken for almost an hour since making their rushed plans to leave the house, "We're going to be okay." She doesn't even pretend that she's convincing either of them that anything is okay, but it's nice to hear it said aloud anyway.

Phil nods and grabs her hand, giving it a short squeeze. "We still have each other right?" Carrie smiles up at him and nods.

They open the door and leave, making sure to lock it behind them. Even if locks can be picked, it gives them some sense of reassurance that they are leaving everything there to return to, eventually. There is supposedly no way to way to exit the house from the back, but thanks to Chris' endless pranking of his friends...

" _No way, Alex will_ kill _us if we break more things, they've only moved in three weeks ago!" Phil pretends to be reluctant, but he just giggles as he watches Chris work the planks of wood loose, bending them back and forth until they gave enough for a slender person to fit through the gap formed. "What Alex doesn't know will only hurt him as long as he doesn't let us use the spa bath!" Chris' gangster impersonation only makes Phil giggle harder, "Lester, you're my watchout, stay focused!" They are hidden behind the rose bushes, rigging up an elaborate slingshot, master pranksters at their prime. "Phil?" Chris sounds strangely concerned, and Phil-_

"Phil?" Carrie's voice is more determined this time and he remembers himself, blinking away tears he hadn't noticed forming and, nodding curtly, leads the way to the far corner of the back garden. He's hardly rested properly in weeks, he's not about to let one more sleepless night turn him into a wreck. Pushing aside the thorny bushes with the sleeve of his coat, Phil pulls on the loose wood until the gap in the fence is revealed again, must to Carrie's amusement.

"So it _was_ you guys! I swear Alex was just about to ask to move in to my place, he was so convinced the house was haunted!" Carrie always did manage to make the best of any situation she was put into, though how she could still be cheerful after this hell of a night is an utter mystery to Phil.

He stands back, indicating for her to go first, and he follows soon after, squeezing through the narrow gap before moving the planks back as well as he can to conceal their escape route.

It opens up onto a cobblestone alleyway that runs behind the houses on the street. From past experience, Phil knows that one direction leads to an exit on a nearby street, but that's not what they need right now. They've already agreed that neither of their places are going to be safe, but they need rest and shelter for a while, at least before deciding what to do next. Instead he turns left, following the alleyway down until it hits the back of the local library.

The fence is relatively easy to climb but the library doesn't open for another two hours, so they decide to sit in the rear carpark, leaning their weary backs against a thick tree trunk. Carrie's eyes are shut as soon as the back of her head is resting against the bark, and Phil reaches over to cover her with the rug.

He leans back next to her, resting his phone on to of his thighs, tracing with a single finger around the rectangular edge. His head is aching and his legs numb in the cool morning's air, but his mind seems to be working on overdrive- how he will ever be able to catch some sleep is beyond him. His mind slips back to what feels like an age ago, sitting around the table, reading over the strange documents. He lingers on the things he didn't appreciate then; the way Chris scrunched up his nose when he read things he couldn't comprehend, Charlie's endless cups of teas and kind words, how PJ kept fiddling with his pen, spinning it across his fingers (but only when Chris was looking), Alex's exuberant hand movements- and within a few minutes, he had joined Carrie in slumber.


	8. When You Are Worlds Away

Dan stares blankly at the outdated and somewhat decrepit computer screen, wrinkling up his nose at the pungent smell of hot chips and unwashed bodies. He rarely frequented Internet Cafés and this establishment couldn't have reminded him more why this was the case. Looking past the owner himself, and the equally delightful users watching porn on either side of him, the place itself was grossly overcrowded, the chairs squished against each other - the mouse was covered by a slimy substance that Dan wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know the origins of, and use the keyboard was heavily impeded by the abundance of crumbs wedged between the keys.

While Dan would never have coped in such conditions in the past, today he hardly noticed these aspects, if only to note his disdain, his task was far more important. The homepage takes at least two minutes to load and he has to wait again after he types in the web address he could never truly forget. He's not entirely sure what he expected to find, or even what it was precisely that drove him to do this, even after so much time had passed.

It's just the way it was before. The same video promoted on his home page, the same links in the sidebar, the same picture and coloured words proclaiming 'AmazingPhil' decorating the top of the page. It's as if he's opening a door to his past and the torrents of memories he's kept at bay, tried to move on from, are challenging him, edging on rushing back, wetting his eyes- the afternoons spent editing together, picking songs and graphics, reviewing their joint videos and making certain that they have cut out any incriminating footage…

It's funny how important it seemed back then, keeping everything secret, keeping _them_ a secret. It wasn't because they were afraid of how people would react; at least he's fairly certain it wasn't. They'd told their closest friends and it didn't seem important to go much further than that. Somehow that decision had grown to a rule of nothing revealing in their videos, which had only grown more difficult as Phil grew very fond of sneaking an arm around Dan's waist whenever they were sitting close together.

Dan absentmindedly opens a new internet window, only mildly aware that he is allowing himself to _remember_ , something he's fought for so long to avoid. Somehow, it's more comforting than he'd expected it to be. Logging into his email, his mind wanders painfully to the way Phil's hair looked first thing in the morning, fluffy and messy, before he'd had the chance to iron the black locks smooth. He can feel tears slowly prickling in the corners of his eyes, but ignores it, suddenly intrigued by what's appeared on the screen. Dan and Phil both started sorting their emails more than a year ago- anything important could easily be flooded by fanmail and spam – and in the first section, the part reserved for personal emails from friends, there was one new email, sent only two days earlier.

**From: Carrie Hope Fletche  
Subject: DANIEL JAMES HOWELL READ THIS NOW**

His eyes flashing with panic, Dan swiftly opens the email, scanning the contents in less than a minute, his pulse quickening and terror growing with every sentence.

 _Hi Dan_  
I don't know if you're going to get this in time or if you can even read your emails right now but I guess it's worth a shot. Of course there's always a chance that they'll track this back to me, but hopefully the public library doesn't share it's security camera footage.  
They've taken everyone, whoever they are. Alex, Charlie, PJ and Chris are all gone and I don't know if it's your fault but I know that before you left nothing was wrong and now everything is. Me and Phil are okay, for now, we're hiding and getting money and getting by, but I know this can't last forever.  
I don't know if you're going to read this but I can't be sure that someone else won't find it so I can't tell you our plan for sure, only we're not going to sit around and wait to be picked off like the others.  
Maybe they have you too…  
How do we know where is safe? Or who is safe.. maybe I should just delete this, but I can't just go without leaving some kind of message. If you are reading this, reply within one day because I'll be checking this again tomorrow, but after that I don't want to risk someone recognizing me again.  
I hope this isn't just me being silly and emotional, I hope you read this.. I hope you come back. He still misses you, more than ever.  
Love, Carrie.

He reads it twice more, just to make sure he hasn't misread a word, before deleting the email and his internet history and hurrying out of the café, almost knocking three chairs on his way out. Dan's skin feels cool and clammy, even as he stands in the glare of the warm afternoon sun. It is only ingrained training and immense self discipline that stop him from sprinting all the way back to his apartment to collect his things. Every step feels like a decade as he forces his feet into what would appear to be a regular walking pace, changing the focus of his gaze every eight to fifteen seconds- you never know who is watching.

When Dan finally makes it to his apartment, locking the door behind him, he packs all of his belongings in less than two minutes- not that he has many items worth taking with him. Sitting on the edge of his bed, he pulls his watch off his arm, noting the time, 4:15pm- in two hours it will be peak traffic and take much longer than an hour to get to the airport, but the wait is worth it; no need to get anyone who might be watching intrigued over his sudden change of plans. He can book a flight to England from the airport, he's earnt enough to cover that and a night at the airport hotel if it's going to take a while, but it really doesn't matter either way- Dan Howell is going home.


	9. It's Not Fair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! Nice long chapter to make up for it :D

Carrie has always wanted to be a singer. Most siblings might be jealous of their brother when his music career takes off, but for Carrie, side from being immensely proud, it showed her that it was  _possible,_ not to give up on her dreams because if he could do it, why on earth shouldn't she be able to do the same. With a weary sigh, she peers at her reflection in grimy mirror, strange shadows cast by the flickering incandescent light above her. The red lipstick and heavy eyeliner are hardly her style, but the bar wouldn't hire her unless she'd accepted their terms on appearance and song choice, and they had been very specific. In a past dream of a normal life, she'd never have worn something so short and clingy and  _sequined_  in a pink fit, but now, as she steps back to look at the offensively red garment, she has to agree that she does rather look the part of a cheap cabaret singer.

And she  _is_  cheap, as was the makeup that she begins to wipe off her face with wads of hand towel, the red and black streaking across her face. They didn't have the money for anything at the moment- the dress was found tossed out with the rubbish of a local amateur theatre group, the jewels and makeup were the least expensive she could find at the supermarket. When she has finally taken the junk off, her face is bright red, but in the early morning hours, who was going to care about that?

Dawn is gentle; few people are left out from the night before and it's still too early for the bustle and rush of city workers. The walk back straddles the line between calming and terrifying- Carrie has heard what happens to young women alone in London. But by this point, there is no place she can feel truly safe. At least here, on the pavement, she can't be so easily cornered, she can still run- sort of. She presses on the heavy wooden door in the right spot to release the lock and pushes it open, kicking off her heels as soon as she gets inside. Not even bothering with her dress, she stumbles in the dim to the hallway and into the bedroom, collapsing into her bundle of collected sheets and blankets, exhausted from the long night.

After a few moments, her breathing evens out and her limbs adjust themselves into a more comfortable contortion in her make-shift bed. Her heavy eyes are just about to give way when she hears Phil shifting in his blankets.

"Hey."

"Hey yourself, was it a good night?" He sounds tired, his voice even more hoarse than hers.

"Could be worse. They let me sing Whitney… which was a nice change." The following words are smothered and intelligible, but then she turns her head slightly towards Phil, "Did you have a lovely sleep?" She can sense herself slipping into sleep as he replies, and though her mind forms the beginning of a response, by the time he's finished the sentence, she's fast asleep.

Waiting for a few moments before realizing Carrie was not going to respond, Phil sits upright, smiling at Carrie's snuggled form- she's never lost her warmth through all of this, not for one second. Rubbing at his eyes, he yawns widely- it's been seven hours and he knows he should be using this time to catch up on sleep, he should be up in three hours to head to the library, but somehow it's impossible for him to find any rest until he knows that Carrie is back and safe.

Lying back down, he closes his eyes and, just like every for the past few weeks night, he listens to the creaking of the wall to his left and tries not to think of Dan until the embrace of sleep steals him away.

Phil leaves the library at 4pm, amongst the flocks of schoolchildren leaving the school two buildings down, heading home or to a nearby food outlet in packs of gaggling teenagers. He slips in behind a group of four girls; close enough to not appear isolated without encroaching on their intense debate on which of them was most eligible to marry Tom Hiddleston. Smiling with premature wisdom at the gentle ease of their ignorance, Phil waits until they pass Rathbone Place before peeling off into the alleyway and sliding into the cover of the building shadows, the cloaking darkness protecting him until he reaches their front door.

The splintering wooden doors are plastered in band posters and graffiti, made thick with months of neglect so the only part where the decrepit wood can actually be seen is around the door handle and keyhole.

Pretending to fiddle with pressing a key into the lock (it was actually just a nail he'd found in a corner the first night they'd stayed here), Phil presses his shoulder against the middle panel of the door, hard, and it swings open.

He finds Carrie in the kitchen, hands wrapped tightly around a mug of tea. It was better than he'd expected, being homeless. They'd found this place abandoned with a relatively low proportion of rodent residents- most importantly it was the last place that they'd usually be found.

With a sigh, Phil poured himself a cup of tea from the kettle still warm over the stovetop. The library had, once again, been fruitless. He couldn't find anything, not on Dan, nor on any of the information they'd pulled out of that damned file. They were at a dead end, and both he and Carrie knew it. Neither of them exchanged a word but the resigned silence has spread, weed-like, through their little house.  
After a few moments, Carrie shoots him what was probably intended as a comforting smile, before pushing her chair back and depositing her mug into the sink.

"Wait." It occurs to Phil that most normal people would have said 'hello' by this stage, but their situation is anything but normal. "Carrie, we can't just keep doing this. I'm not finding anything and it's been two weeks. We've not heard from anyone, none of them, not even D-" He hates the way his voice cracks, every time, and inhales deeply, shakily; "Not even Dan. So, why aren't we doing anything?"

Carrie moves back to her seat, resting her chin in her hand, her glance gently quizzical. Perhaps the saddest thing for Phil is her hair- limply hanging either side of her face. It's wrong. Her voice, however, has somehow stayed as bubbly as ever.

"What can we do? They found us in Paddington, we didn't even get to my parents before-"

"Yes, yes I know, it's a good thing we were bloody lucky that time!" The memory of jumping from the train was still terrifying to both of them, as was the idea that they'd been somehow followed to the train station. It was the first time Phil had seen Carrie cry through this whole, crazy ordeal. "But this is going to drive us mad. How long can we evade them? I say, let's play the cards this time. It'll give us an edge surely, they won't us to be the ones coming and hunting  _them_  down."

At this, Carrie's eyebrow darts skyward. "Hunting?" Phil nods, sitting up straighter in his chair.

"As far as I can see it, there are three things we can be certain of so far. Number one," He holds a single, pale finger into the dank air, "Someone is after us, and they've got the resources to track us down and take us almost without a trace- that's number two," He adds a second finger. Then he pauses, almost regretting his promise earlier, before spilling out," And a third- Dan kept something secret from us. I think that's what started this all. I can't understand why, or how, but the only clue we really have is that box we found, and they've taken it."

"Precisely! So it's not a very useful clue Phil, I don't know.. It sounds like we're up against more than we can take, and we should really just go to the-

"For the last time Carrie, we're not going to the police." He cut across her a second time, his impatience misdirected by fatigue. "Sorry, I just... We discussed this already; if this was realistically something the police could help us with, why have there been no news reports of our disappearance? How come we can't contact any family, how come they're not out here, trying to find us? That tell me that either they're working with the police, who are looking for us, but given the guns those guys on the train had, I doubt it's that one. More likely is, whatever we've stumbled upon, is too messy for the police to handle. They're keeping it hushed but they're not helping us?" Carrie snorts, and answers Phil's enquiring look with, "You watch way too much TV, my friend."

"You have a better theory?" She shakes her mane, and then frowns.

"But what does that mean? If this is beyond the police, how on earth would we be able to do anything?"

Phil's grin stretches across his face, "We have the element of surprise."

Carrie's heart is pounding as she walks down the too-familiar road, hands in pockets, mimicking nonchalance as best she can. They've done their very best to make her recognizable, blonde curls blowing in the wind, even the very same outfit that she was wearing that long night weeks ago when they returned to find their friends gone and their world torn into madness. She smiles at the old lady who passes, trying to act casual. They'd decided that as long as she didn't do anything drastic, no one else would either. Not in such a public location. They hoped.

When she arrives at their apartment block, she presses the buzzer for their door and stands, tapping her foot, as if waiting for a reply. To any passing stranger, this is as common a scene as buying milk, but she knows too well that the apartment is empty. They'd decided that it seemed likely that there would be some form of greeting party waiting there, in case they'd decided to return. They're betting on it.

Pulling an irritated expression, Carrie fumbles in her bag for a few moments, pulling out some paper and a pen, and she scribbles a note, just two lines, before stuffing into the mailbox.

_Where are you guys, you're not answering any of my calls!_

_I'm hanging at Starbucks till 2, meet me there if you get this before then._

_xx Carrie_

She can't resist glancing up at the security camera before she leaves, ambling as casually as she can back down the street, apparently having failed to contact her two good friends. Eventually she turns off into the park, where there are spare clothes and a wig stashed in some bushes. It's a reasonable detour to make en route to the nearest Starbucks, and as Phil watches the door open and three men in suits dart out of his building, he can only hope that Carrie wasn't lying when she said that her tree climbing skills were to die for.

He forces himself to count to twenty before slipping out from his hiding place and onto the street, darting across the road to enter the car park behind the tall apartments. From there, he climbs atop the bins, yanking open the laundry window, which has been left unlocked for as long as Phil can remember. There is a moment of terror when he gives the frame a swift tug and it doesn't budge, but a few moments and strained pulling efforts later and it gives. He clambers awkwardly through the small space, wincing as he scrapes his forearm on the metal edge of the unused lock. From here, he accesses the back staircase, heart thudding to the rhythm of every silent step, half expecting to be found at any moment. This was hardly a well developed plan, but it appeared to working so far.

After passing by his own floor without interruption, Phil ascends one more floor, opens the hallway door and half sprints down to the hall, stopping two doors away from the elevator. He knocks on the door, politely first, but when no one responds for a few minutes, his fist rather pounds at the wood. It swings open to reveal a rather disgruntled and shirtless twenty-something year old man.

"Look, you've chosen a rather bad time to interrupt me but I'm here now, is there something I can help you with?" If he is surprised that Phil darts past him, closing the door behind him, it doesn't show.

"Hi, I'm Dan," He silently curses his inability to come up with a false name on the spot, "-and I live in the flat below yours, only I've left my keys at my girlfriends house- ex-girlfriend now, nasty business that, with my best friend too- I have a spare and the window's not locked only I can't get in to pick it up, and you know how the landlord gets about replacing the locks," His rambling only picks up it's pace with every phrase, as intended," –so if it isn't too much to ask of you, can I borrow your balcony?"

Phil sends a small thank you to any god who is listening, as he scales off the side of his neighbours balcony, for the kindness of strangers and the convenience of poorly planned buildings. Pushing open the glass door, he steps on the carpet, the tension of his own home overwhelming him, almost forcing him back outside. He can't hear anyone, but is unable to trust his judgement seeing as the blood pounding in his ears could well be concealing small noises nearby. As he makes his way to the bathroom, he slowly lets himself relax. There appears to be no one around- either they've gone off after Carrie or there was never anyone actually inside, just elsewhere in the building, positioned to wait for them to return.

Phil locks the door behind him, despite the paradoxical situation he was locking himself into. The bathroom, unlike the main room, had no balcony.

It had only occurred to him a few nights ago, a memory surfacing after so many years, presenting itself neatly for use in their plot. It had been early in the morning and Phil, just arriving home, had entered the bathroom to use it, only to find Dan there. Of course, he'd backed out and waited for Dan to leave, but his alcohol hazed mind had failed to acknowledge most of the abnormalities of the scene. Firstly, there was Dan, fully clothed, just standing there like a deer in the headlights. Then, there was the tile.

Trying his hardest to remember which one it was, Phil presses against the edges of several tiles in the bathroom just to the left of the mirror until, to his delight and surprise, one gives way beneath his fingertips, and swings upwards. Behind the false front, a small inlet had been carved out of the wall, holding a mobile phone and a wad of cash.

For just a moment, Phil stops to wonder how Dan had managed this- had he carved out the hole, needing a place to stash these objects? Or just noticed a convenient lose tile and worked from there. Shaking himself, he pockets the phone, first checking that it is switched off, and then the wad of cash. He peers into the gap to see what else was there and involuntarily gasps as he realises what the black form is, lying deep in the tiles- a gun.

Somehow, its presence is all he needs to snap out of his investigative mode, and turn back to his primary goal- getting out unnoticed. He is almost too scared to use their front door, but there appears to be no other option. Pushing the door open a crack, and spying a clear path, he quickly darts to the end of the hall and back into the staircase. Peering back through the small window on the door, Phil watches in horror as he sees men with guns storming in the door, moments after he is safely away. He only watches for a second, before bolting down the stairs at full speed, out the window and down an alleyway, barely breathing for fear of being caught. Somehow getting out is far easier than breaking in, and soon he finds himself lost in London once more and finally stops running, resting his palms over his knees, doubled over and breathless.

Checking his watch, he realises he only has another twenty minutes before he is supposed to meet Carrie back at their house, to show her the spoils of their venture. With a few swipes of his hand through his too-long hair, Phil is off again, winding through shops and strangers, until he is safe inside again- two minutes early.

Sitting down at the table, he pulls the phone from his pocket, curious as to what it might contain. Not wanting to turn it on quite yet, he turns the device over in his hands, more questions than answers budding in his mind. It's a Motorola flip-phone, and pathetically out of date. There's no camera, a bulky battery compartment and Phil is fairly certain that the screen would turn on to be black and white. It's in fairly bad nick, scratched and a small crack across the top corner of the screen, but other than that, it currently provides no other information. Next, he tugs the notes from his pocket and starts counting. A few minutes later and Phil has several stacks before him. He is stunned, he's never held so much money in his own hands before- that's five hundred pounds before him, all in neat ten pound notes. He hates himself for thinking this way, but Phil's foremost thought is why didn't Dan take it with him when he left?

He gathers the money and shoves it back into his pocket, not wanting to risk leaving it in an unlocked house, checking his watch again. Carrie's ten minutes late.

Phil decides not to let it bother him, not yet. He gives her thirty minutes before he allows himself to go searching for her. When the minute hand strikes twelve, he instantly regrets not going after her the instant he was clear of the apartment.

Despite his exhaustion, he gets to the park efficiently and, after checking for any signs of suspiciously loitering individuals, darts over to the group of trees where she planned to hide from their enemies.

Carrie's not there, nor is there any sign of her ever being there- that is until Phil checks the bushes nearby and pulls out her beanie.

She must have been pulling it over her distinctive curls when they got her, he reasons, and it fell off in the struggle. For a moment he considers questioning the families by the play set, but thinks better of it and heads off again, not bothering to play his game of shadows and sly secrecy this time.

He's all alone, walking down the street, with absolutely nothing to his name but five hundred pounds and a mobile phone. He's all alone.

Spotting a café that has a outdoor seating area, he makes his way over, ordering two caramel macchiato, and takes their coffees to a seat outside. Dan was usually the one who insisted on carrying the mugs, ever the gentleman (but also due to Phil's unbeatable record for dropping boiling hot beverages onto unsuspecting victims), but this time Phil managed for the both of them.

He sat there, sipping his coffee, watching the heat roll off Dan's in steamy waves, the cars and buses rushing past on the busy street in front of him. It's an indulgence, a moment of tranquil before the storm. They'd never been to this café, but Phil thinks Dan might have liked it. They serve chocolate waffles all day, according to the menu, so Phil had pretty good reason to think that he'd have liked it too, back when he and Dan did things like coffee and waffles and dates.

Eventually, he puts down the mug again and brings out the phone, pressing down on the power button until the screen flashes and comes to life. Already he has noticed three men enter the cafe and sit alone at seperate tables, watching his every move. They think they have him cornered, but he wants them to understand- this is his choice now, he's tired of running.

Phil can only find three contacts and he chooses the one most recently called, "G", and, with his jaw clenched and his free hand moving up to hang off the back of his neck, he clicks dial.

 


	10. In The Cruelest Way

PJ is drawing again.

They’d given him a notepad and some pencils after he’d resorted to painting stories for Chris on the walls, using the tomato sauce and salt they’d bring in with dinner. It kept him calm- being productive, working again. It had been far too long since he’d created anything and it was driving him mad.

Pulling back the orange pencil, he examines the portrait. The Queen of England, complete with fake tan, nose piercing and purple highlights.

“Well that’s a definite improvement.” Chris leans over PJ’s shoulder, resting his chin in the crook of his neck. “Do you think they’d send it the way of her stylists? You could be responsible for a new generation of monarchists!"

“You’re an idiot Chris.” It’s an affectionate criticism they can both relate too.

“But, you love me! So deal.” Chris sits heavily down beside PJ on the couch, one of two, made from a strange green leather- the sole piece of furniture in their room besides the bunk beds and the cramped dining table. “And it’s not like I’ve got much competition around here anyway, so I am going to keep on being an idiot until you give me a kiss.”

From the other side of the room, Charlie looks up from his sixth reread of The Time Machine and smiles faintly at their embrace.

 “I don’t get it.”

Alex’s voice carries from the lower bed, and Charlie leans over the side of his mattress, flipping his head so that his long hair comes flapping down with gravity as he enquired to his friend, “Don’t get what?”

Alex gestures at Chris and PJ.

“Have they completely forgotten about Phil? About Carrie? Heck, I still can’t get Dan out of my mind and it’s been forever since he disappeared! How do they just keep smiling and cuddling like nothing’s changed!”

Charlie swings off the top bunk and squishes himself in next to Alex. It’s a close fit, but the warmth and solidness of Charlie’s frame beside his has an almost immediate calming affect on Alex.

“They haven’t forgotten. People just deal with stressful situations differently! Chris can be strong when PJ is, it’s about being calm together and coping day to day for them. But they’re both testing the guards at every opportunity they get, asking for different kinds of things, enquiring about updates, befriending the guy who brings our meals! Unlike some people who prefer to just sit around and mope-"

“Hey! I do not mope!”

Curling an arm behind his best friend’s neck, Charlie sighs and leans back against Alex’s shoulder.

“Yes you do, and so do I. There’s no point in pretending this isn’t anything except awful and terrifying as far as I’m concerned. But that doesn’t make me want to find a way to help the others any less than Chris and PJ and their funny schemes! Everyone’s just different.”

“You’re right, I know you are Charlie!” Alex sits up a little more, fiddling with the buttons on his shirt. “But I just can’t stop thinking, not ever, not even at night. I mean, where do you think they are now? What if they found Carrie, but then-“

“Did someone say my name?” Carrie’s voice wafts through the opening door like a dream, fresh and clear despite the clearly exhausted form which follows through the gap shortly after. She smiles back at the suited man who lead her to this point before the door shuts- as soon as it does, she falls back against the verticle surface, sliding down to the floor.

“Carrie!” Alex springs to his feet and rushes over, the other three boys joining them a heartbeat later, but Carrie waves off their gush of concern with one hand.

“No, no don’t worry, I’m just exhausted! It’s hard to keep smiling and standing straight when you’ve hardly had a good meal or a decent sleep in so long, but I wasn’t about to collapse before those- those bastards!”

Chris lets out a tiny giggle, leaning forward and gripping her shoulder with a confident hand. Alex, on the other hand, is shocked into silence; Carrie was always the one to chastise them for their crude language. In just one sentence, he feels like the last thread of hope of ever returning to their pre-madness lives, crumbling away.

“Alex?” Her voice is more quiet this time and he watches as the others shuffle back a little, giving them privacy but still unwilling to truly leave Carrie. “Are you mad at me for leaving you, when I followed Phil? I had no idea what was going to happen, but you did warn me! Not that you were really warning me about this, but- oof!” The air is knocked out of her as Alex’s arms encircle her in a tight hug, too hard, too desperate, but the ache is a comfort to them both and she clutches back just as hard a moment later.

“I’m so glad you’re okay, I was going mad from worry.” His mumbles fill her left ear, her heart sore at the sound of his voice, his accent, the scratch of his stubble against her neck. “Just the though of you out there on your own…”

“I wasn’t on my own silly! I had Phil and he’s far more resourceful than we’ve ever given him credit! Though I think we all manage the impossible under stress, even I coped with singing at that awful, seedy club somehow!”

Alex kneels back onto his ankles, a quizzical frown across his brow.

“Singing?” He can hardly keep the judgement from his tone.

“Yes.”

PJ’s eyebrow rocket upwards, “At a seedy club?”

Her grin finally spreads from grateful to genuine glee. “You’d never believe what they had me wear!”

Charlie extracts Carrie from Alex’s grip and brings her over to the couch, supplying a blanket and a glass of water. She accepts gratefully and gulps it down in one mouthful,- “They never did bring me anything to drink, even after I asked twice!”- before relaxing back against Alex’s shoulder, as the rest of the boys sat down around them.

“Well then, I suppose you want to hear what we got up to since- how long has it been? No matter, I will not disappoint you! It’s quite a story indeed- starting with when we got back from the park to find the house empty…”

 

 

 “…but once Carrie was gone, I immediately realised that there was no further steps I could take on my own. Despite everything, the one thing I could rely on was the knowledge that wherever all my friends were disappearing to was where I would most likely end up too. With the cash I’d found and the phone, I made my way to the café-“

“So you chose not to take the gun with you?”

“Yes.”

“Why not?”

A pause.

“I don’t know how to fire a gun. I don’t like guns. You pick which one works best.”

The man opposite him in his immaculate, black suit makes a small note.

“Was this a café you had frequented before?”

“No.”

“What motivated you to select this café in particular?”

Phil pauses, one hand tracing unintentional shapes onto the back of the other, trying to figure out the best way to answer the question. The suited man, who had introduced himself as Agent Sloan, sits with his pen poised over the light blue paper, complete with government seal imprinted on the top corner of the page. He’s big on details, on motivations; Phil feels like the past few weeks have been dissected down to the most irrelevant details, so that anything that this Agent wants to know will be consequently completely distorted by the ridiculous detail at which he is being examined, but he tries to remain as composed as possible. Every questioned answered has to be a step closer to Dan.

“It was out in the open.”

“Why was this a motivation for you Mr Lester?”

Mr Lester. They insist on calling him that, from the moment they sat down at his table at the café, three of them, black suits and formal words. _We’d like you to come with us Mr Lester, it would be best for everyone if you don’t make more of a scene Mr Lester,_ he’s already explained that Phil was more than fine and no one in his entire life had ever called him ‘Mr Lester’, but upon that and a great deal many other seemingly menial things, they’ve remained firm.

“I already knew that it was only a matter of time for me. I didn’t want to be cornered in some alley though, or taken on the underground. It just seemed like the right way to do it.”

“To do what precisely?”

“To chance the pace.”

Another pause, the questions and the pauses taking their turns patiently, milling out a hapless story, and emotion withheld at every turn.

“Is this a race for you Mr Lester?”

Phil angles his head slightly, considering the statement.

“Less a race, more like a game. I just got bored playing along and realised that the rules were biased anyway.”

“I see.”

Phil watches as he scribbles more indecipherable letters onto the paper with his inky, black pen. The scrawl is intentionally illegible to him, as the agent had pointed out earlier, so there is no point in leaning over and trying to reveal the notes. Phil doesn’t plan on revealing anything to this man that he didn’t wish to, so it was an unneeded warning, but more information for him, so he hardly protested.

“We know the rest of your story from there on in, given it was my personal agents you met there. We appreciate your cooperation in regards to how you’ve arrived here.” He hardly sounds like he appreciates anything about Phil, but it’s a nice touch nonetheless. Turning over a new page of his notepad, Agent Sloan clicks his pen twice; a tad more violently than Phil would think was necessary, but apparently steeling himself for something more. His tone is deadly grave as he looks up at Phil, who can’t help but feel that despite the already long interview, the worst for him is hardly over.

“Tell me about your relationship with Mr Howell. How much did he tell you of his live prior to meeting you? Were there any aspects about your domestic cohabitation that concerned you? This could be strange visitors, late night trips, anything you might think to be pertinent to our data- I would request that try not to forget anything that is relevant.”

At this point, Phil stills. His hand is still resting on the table between them and, if someone were to look closely enough, they might have seen a slight twitch of his fingers. After a pregnant pause, he looks up again, determination all too evident in his glare.

“No.”

Agent Sloan coughs twice, patting his chest reflexively.

“I do beg your pardon Mr-“

“I said no.” Phil pulls back his hand, his shoulders squared and more confident in this than he’d been with anything for a long time now. “I’ve answered your questions and now you’ll start to answer some of mine. I’m not telling you about anything to do with my relationship or connection to Dan until you give me some reason to trust you.”

The hand moves from his chest to his hair, running greasy fingers along the already oiled strands, irritated and overheating beneath the bare globe which shone above them.

“I don’t think you understand the severity of this situation, Mr Lester. This is hardly some diminutive rivalry between friends or even a concern we can tolerate to remain confined to a single government agency. Our government survives as an interconnected network of exclusive offices and to go beyond an individual district of concern is a rarity. Despite your lack of clearance, I have been authorised to reveal to you that I am an agent from Section 4 of MI6. I do understand if a young boy like yourself cannot elicit the consequence of that fact, but believe me when I say, Mr Lester, we are not a department who take individuals such as yourself lightly. This business of Mr Daniel Howell is of international concern, so whatever your fastidious, uneducated opinion on the matter may be, I can assure you that you are by no means competent of handling this business with which you’ve managed to become entangled. We have your friends and we can keep all of you for however long we deem necessary. It is in your best interest that you start talking and start talking now.”

“And I don’t think you understand what I’m going for here.” Phil steels his fingers against the edge of the table, refusing to be intimidated by his pompous speech. “Like you say, I have no clearance, and I’ve know that means I’m at your mercy. But I also know that whatever is happening with Dan, it’s got you all scared and worried- enough to abduct a bunch of us who don’t even know what the hell is going on?”

“Your link to Mr Howell was evident, and we needed to collect you for your safety just as much as his own, so-“

“No. I’ll tell you what I know about Dan but not until you tell me some of the story, the stuff we’ve missed. What’s going on? Where is Dan and what’s he got to do with MI6 anyway?” Phil is sincerely beginning to hope the movies he’s seen where the government tortures their own citizens for information are false, but before he gets an answer, there’s a sharp rapping at the door and Agent Sloan rises, frowning momentarily down at Phil, before crossing the room, indicating for the armed guard there to step aside, and opening the steel door.

“Did I not clearly state that I was not to be interrupted during this interview? Richards, this had better be important!”

The interuptee stammered through his message, “I’m s-sorry sir, it’s just I thought you’d want to know that they saw Howell sir, at an airport, he got away thought but-“

The door was abruptly slammed shut, so whatever ensuing rage was directed at Richards fell deaf on Phil’s ears, but he still he sat, facing the door, shocked.

Dan was at an airport? He got away? _Good,_ a small part of his brain feels a surge of pride, _he clearly doesn’t want to be caught..._ Phil was still certain that Dan had his reasons for everything he’d done, reasons he hoped would become evident shortly, his time spent with the agents only reassured his confidence in which side of this chase he was most loyal to. 

Another part of Phil was reeling at the concept that someone had sighted Dan, who meant that Dan was still alive- and intrigued that this didn’t relieve or calm him in anyway. Despite everything, he’d never felt that Dan was dead, murdered or otherwise, and despite an inability to justify his reasoning.

Agent Sloan suddenly came thundering back through the door, slamming a piece of paper down onto the desk, glaring daggers at Phil, who leant back in surprise, overwhelmed by the force of his gaze.

“I thought I made it perfectly clear to you that lying to me would not place you well in here! But then you go ahead and tell me you’ve had no contact with Howell, despite evidence catching you red-handed of doing precisely that?”

Confused, Phil glances down at what appears to be a printed email. Reading the first few lines, he wavers from perplexed to shock, and then back to defiance, glaring right back at the agent.

“Well perhaps if you learnt to read, you’d realise that this email is clearly from Carrie and not me, I know we have a similar hairstyle, but really-“

“This is no time for jokes!” His face is beet red now, fury pulsing in the artery over his temple, “You told us yourself that you and Ms Fletcher were together, do you honestly think I’d believe a jerk like you, messing around with things far beyond your understanding, sitting here with that smug look on your face and telling me, an MI6 agent, that you never-“

“I think that’s quite enough of that, thank you Agent Sloan.”

The new voice is soft-spoken, but the words carry clearly into the room, and Phil peers into the dark corridor, trying to identify the source. Soon enough, a tall, slightly rotund man emerges, walking calmly across the room, until he is standing beside Agent Sloan, who has shrunken several inches at his mere presence.

“But sir, we’ve just discovered-“

“I said, _enough,_ you’re dismissed from this interview, effective immediately. Please leave Mr Lester and I to chat.” He smoothens the front of his pinstripe suite and Phil takes this opportunity to pipe up once more about his name, “I actually do prefer Phil you know, otherwise everything you say sounds like I’ve been caught smoking by my mum again and I’m really in trouble.” The new man chuckles, a warm smile gracing his flabby features, before turning pointedly to face his Agent, who marches out of the room, face flushed and eyes averted to the ground.

Indicating for the guard to leave the room, and close the door behind him, this new man sits down, brown buttons protesting against the increased pressure.

“You must forgive Agent Sloan, he’s been working very hard on this case, hardly had a break since it all started. He may seem irate but I assure you he only presses you with the best of intentions.” He leans forward slightly, stomach digging into the table, “Allow me to introduce myself, Phil, I am ‘G’.”

“I thought I recognised your voice!” Phil was beyond caring about the impossibility of his situation now, fascination taking over. “You’re the person I spoke to on the phone!”

“I am indeed. It is to our misfortune, Phil, that the agents managed to track the phone so quickly. I was in Cardiff when you called, but luckily for you, the number you dialled will always ring through to me, and I always pick it up. Otherwise, goodness knows how many rings you’d have had to jump through before we finally had the chance to meet.”

He pauses for a moment, scratching his chin thoughtfully, the stubble noisy beneath his nails. “But where to begin! I have questions for you just as you have for me, yet I would prefer to continue our conversation somewhere a little more hospitable than this. Shall we start with the most pressing matters? I will answer three of your questions now, but do try to be specific with the information that you request, and then we can move on to,” He pauses, giving the table a condemnatory glare, “more aesthetically appealing pastures to continues our discussion. How does that sound?”

Phil doesn’t really have much of a choice, but its kind of this man, G, to give him at least the illusion of autonomy. He nods to indicate his agreement and then squeezes his eyes shut, blocking out the room and it’s inhabitant, trying to make the wisest choice he can. The first question is the easiest to word.

“Where are Chris, PJ, Charlie, Alex and Carrie and what is going to happen to them?”

G tut-tuts softly, “That is really two questions my boy! But no matter, I understand your concern. Allow me to reassure you that your friends are all safe; in fact they are in a room not to far from here. They have not been harmed, but they have been told nothing of your arrival, in what I believe to be an attempt from Agent Sloan to elicit your level of organisation and communication within the group. As for what is going to happen to them, I was going to invite them to join us for a discussion about our next move, perhaps after we’ve discussed some more delicate matters? I do hope that is a satisfactory answer.”

“Yes, thank you! Far more than anyone’s been able to tell me in a long time, I’m so glad they’re okay.” A small weight is lifted from Phil’s shoulders and he slumps back a little into the chair, weighing up his two remaining questions, attempting to select the order of his enquiries and to find the best wording.

“What is your function in MI6?” This time, his question makes G smile with approval.

“Much better Mr Lester. That is the kind of question that skips the nonsense of titles and names, I’m glad to see you’re learning. My function is to coordinate and manage the international, undercover agents who are collecting data and completing missions on behalf of the Royal Military Intelligence task force. I have command over all the agents within each sector and my personal jurisdiction extends to direct orders to any agent operating within another country, orders they are not permitted to disobey.” He seems saddened by the final phrase, as if disappointed in himself, or perhaps someone else, but Phil doesn’t press him for details. A commander of MI6? As if he needed any more indication of how big this drama had turned out to be…

The final question had really been his first, and his second choice, but Phil somewhat dreaded the answer as much as he was dying to find out what had been bothering him for so long. Finding a way to ask it in a single question was not easy, if this man worked for MI6 there was no doubt that he could work his way around any question he didn’t wish to answer.

“What is the nature of your relationship, current or previous, with Daniel Howell?”

G leant forwards, elbows propped on the table and sausage fingers tucked beneath his chin.

“I was the operator in charge of Daniel James Howell, or Agent Artemis as is his official title, on his final mission in Russia fourteen years ago, and the individual responsible for his rehabilitation and integration into civilian life, complete with pseudonym, backstory and managing of assets. My currently relationship with Artemis is, well, tedious to say the least. He has evaded our every attempted at communication for the past few months, a fact which truly demonstrates the extraordinary capacity I saw in him, in his skills of espionage and stealth, all those years ago.”

Phil blinks, twice for good measure.

“You mean that Dan is a spy?”

G chuckles again. “We try to avoid calling our agents that, but yes, for your intents, Daniel is, or was, a spy for MI6. And despite being only seven years old when I met him, he was one of the very best we’ve ever seen.”

Phil tries to come up with a response, but his mind is reeling and his mouth abandoned him moments earlier.

“I know it’s a lot to take in, but I promise it will only make more sense once I’ve explained more about the situation we all find ourselves in. Now, perhaps, we can take this back to my office?” G stands, straightening his waistcoat and jacket. “I assure you that in a position such as mine, the government has no hesitation with providing some degree of luxury.”

Phil rises silently to his feet, eyes still wide, a memory playing through his mind on repeat- the first time he saw Dan naked, the grotesque scar just below his hip, the awkward silence and assumptions – he follows G silently, scanning through every moment of their lives together until this moment, unsteady and nauseous as he tries to work out just how little he knew about his best friend, and inaudibly dreading what else he was about to find out. 


	11. Don't Get Attached

There’s an unexpected warmth that emanates from the office they enter, setting a different tone to all the other rooms Phil’s been subject to so far. The door closes almost silently behind them and G immediately walks over to a small silver dish, picking up an ornate teapot in one hand and a small cup in the other.   

“Tea, Mr Lester?” Phil shakes his head, standing awkwardly just in front of the door while G pours tea for himself, collecting enough biscuits to fill his saucer for good measure.  

The carpet is a rich red, generously thick as it gives way beneath Phil’s shoes, his shabby appearance rapidly apparent in the sumptuous surroundings. The scene could have been lifted straight off the front page of an interior decorations magazine, dark wood and gold embellishments balanced out with warm yellow light-shades, hanging from intricate roses carved into the high ceilings and expansive windows, spotlessly revealing the silhouette of central London, silver buildings tinted with the first oranges and purples of a murky sunset.    

G moves to sit down in a large leather chair and indicates for Phil to join him. They sit in silence as G sips, and Phil takes in the wall behind his large desk, decorated with personal affects, photographs and trinkets tucked into the corner of overflowing bookshelves. There are hundreds of black folders, labelled only with large, black numbers; but also a large collection of older-looking fictional works, occupying two shelves on the lower left hand side.  

“A hobby of mine.” 

Phil looks up to see G’s gaze trained on him, munching through an almond biscuit. He swallows another mouthful of tea and continues.  

“You’ll find that they’re all first editions, some of them are quite priceless! Almost cost me my right hand to…” His voice trails off, possibly lost in a memory or strategically avoiding a scandalous tale. “But you don’t want to hear about that do you! We’re here to talk about Mr Howell, and of course, you. I understand you have some questions still, so perhaps we can start by my explaining of how Mr Howell, or Artemis as we all know him, came to work for MI6.” 

Phil nods, his bravado from earlier somewhat faded, but now that the imminent threat of danger seems to have passed, he summons the courage to voice his request.  

“Could I see Carrie and the others now? I know you said they’re safe, but she doesn’t know I’m safe and I- I would really appreciate that.” It’s a fairly pathetic request, with no real reason to warrant it or incentive for G to agree, but to his surprise G almost immediately reaches over his desk and grabs a sleek black phone and, dialling in two numbers, clears his throat and begins to speak. Unlike a moment earlier, his tone has dropped to become sharp and official, loosing all trace of the sweeter eloquence from earlier.  

“Higgins, bring the five QACs from room nine to my office- through the back entrance – and ensure that they remain UTP. Yes.” He looks up at Phil for a second before- “No, they won’t be staying. Thank you Higgings.” He hangs up the phone and straightens his jacket lapels, the smile and charm flushing his face once more. 

“There you go Mr Lester, now don’t let it be said that I am an inhospitable guest!” He wags a pudgy finger at Phil, who smiles back, but notes the discrepancy between the two versions of G he has seen so far.  _How many masks must it take to run a spy organisation?_   

“Why did you say they wouldn’t be staying?” He doesn’t want to ask more of G, but curiosity always was Phil’s weakest point. 

“Because they won’t be, Mr Lester, but I will let you see them and see that they are alive and well. I’ll even leave the office to allow you all to reunite, then I’d ask for the others to return to their quarters while we have a little chat, yes?” The last word is a drawled smile, but before Phil can answer, the door swings open and a bundle of blonde hair flies through the entrance, making a beeline for Phil as he rises out of his chair. 

“Carrie? Ooof!” She collides somewhere around his ribs, small but strong arms locking behind his back. 

She’s followed by Alex and Charlie, whose face lights up at the sight of Phil and he quickly joins in on the hug. He smiles hopelessly at Alex, and could almost have cried with relief when he saw PJ edge around the door, Chris following shortly behind. They hug, one after the other, an endless grappling of hands and of support- for the first time in far too long, Phil feels like he might actually have a chance at being himself again. Soon enough, the questions start. 

“Where did they get you? I was pulling my stuff out to get changed, I figured unpacking in a tree would be tricky, but then suddenly there was something over my eyes and- Phil?” Carrie’s melodic voice hasn’t changed a bit, and he suddenly hugs her again, wishing he could find a way to express the absolute gratitude he’s rediscovered for having brilliant friends.  

“Nothing, sorry, I just missed you all.” He looks around and realises that at some point G must have left the room. He may have promised privacy, but Phil doesn’t relax entirely- there’s no way that this room wouldn’t be covered in surveillance. He wants to trust G, he’s definitely grateful that they’ve all been reunited, but there’s still so much yet to be uncovered and too little that he understands yet to rely on G entirely. He turns back to Carrie and smiles- no harm in sharing what the agents have already heart. 

“I realised they’d taken you when I got to the park and you weren’t there- but your beanie was. They got me soon after- or, I got them.” 

“Got them?” Chris raises his eyebrows, ”They’re not the ones locked up at the moment, are you sure they didn’t drug you while we were gone?” PJ flicks his shoulder, silencing him, but their smiles are unwavering. 

“I suppose you’re right; and no drugs I’m pretty sure! Unless you’re all a hallucination?” Chris frowns and then pokes Alex’s neck, causing him to wince and squeak as he recoiled from the unexpected attack.  

“Don’t think so, unless- unless we’re drugged too?” His eyes go wide and Phil laughs, voice turning slightly hoarse from the past few hours. 

“I don’t think so, even my imagined Chris wouldn’t be such a derp!” He punches Chris in the shoulder softly, “What I mean is, I stopped trying to hide, so they picked me up from a café- I called G, that’s the man who was in here before, from a phone I found in our apartment.” He considers mentioning what else he found, but decides against it, for now, until he has more answers. “They questioned me for a bit, but then G took over and brought me up here.” 

“They questioned me too!” Carrie rolled her eyes, “The stupidest things, would you believe?” 

“And us too!” Charlie cuts across, “At first it was all about Dan and you and Carrie, but then it moved on, maybe because they’d run out of those questions, and they started asking us such random things! Like, if we had ever heard you guys speaking Russian, and if we’d ever-“ 

“I think we can all agree now that you’ve been satisfied your request in knowing that your friends are alive and well?” A clipped, posh accent cuts across their conversation. A well tailored suit and sleek, immaculate hair frame the soft but stern face of the newest entrant to the office. The others appear to recognise the lady and PJ whispers under his breath to Phil, ‘ _Meet Mary Poppins_!’ to which Phil struggles to suppress his giggle; the resemblance is uncanny. 

“Mr Liguori, please do not make such insinuations if you are not prepared to say them to my face, thank you!” PJ’s grin slides off his face, but as her stern glare turns of him, he sticks his tongue out at Phil. 

“You must be Mr Lester?” She steps towards the group in steady strides, extending her hand to Phil, who accepts it gladly- of the growing crowd of people he’s been introduced to today, she appears to be the first to be straight forward and honest. “I’m Mairead McPherson and I’ve heard a lot about you- but no one mentioned that you apparently lack any capability of self-grooming and maintenance, I do hope this is not your regular appearance or we are going to have a real job to do.” 

Chris chokes down another giggle and Alex grabs Carrie’s wrist as she attempts to step forward to protest, but Phil can more than defend himself. 

“No, this is not my regular appearance.” He grins at her, feeling cheeky, “But why don’t you spend a few months on the run from MI6 and we’ll see if you can do any better!” He expects her to shout at him, or even return the insult, but instead she simply raises a single, immaculately groomed eyebrow and gives him a satisfied smirk. 

“I think you’ll find I never allow such trivialities to affect my presentation, Mr Lester.” She turns on her heel and heads back towards the door, calling out as she reached the door, “You’ll all be returning with me now, thank you!” 

Charlie turns to Phil, “We don’t actually have to leave already, do we?”  

Carrie snorts. 

“I’d like to see them try!” Alex, still holding her wrist, smiles proudly, but Phil shakes his head. 

“I promised I’d talk to G alone if he let me see you guys first, I’m not sure if there’s anything we can do!” As if on cue, the boulder of a man walked through the door as he finished his sentence, and PJ mouthed ‘ _G?’_ at Phil, who gave a slight nod. 

“Mr Lester is correct, I do need to speak to him alone for now, but I assure you that you will all see each other soon.” As he friends are ushered out of the room with many waves and promises of reunion, Phil is steered back towards his seat at the desk, and G places himself on the other side once more, flipping open the screen of a slim laptop. After a few moment of clicking from G and silence from Phil, the laptop is swivelled to reveal grainy video footage of what appears to be a waiting room, with lengths of seats, information desks and a multitude of people, standing and sitting, all patiently waiting.  

Before Phil can open his mouth, G cuts across him- “I’ll explain where this is in a moment, but first just watch.”  

At first it seems a dull scene, with a few individuals moving from one seat to another, an arguing family feuding over soft toys, an elderly couple hobbling to a vending machine in slow, fragile steps.  But Phil doesn’t have to wait long for a change.

A tall figure walks in through the automatic doors, and despite the bad dye job and the weight loss, Phil would have recognised Dan anywhere. It’s actually him, alive, walking and _Dan._ His mouth is too dry and his hands are turning white from their intense grip on the edge of the desk, but it’s Dan and Phil’s heart is pounding because even after everything, there’s nothing as thrilling or devastating as seeing him again. There’s an undeniable quiver that runs down his spine as Dan looks up to the camera and their eyes meet, for just a second. Then, shoving a beanie over his long hair, he walks up to a service desk, pulls out some papers and starts chatting to the attendant. 

It seems to be going smoothly at first, Dan is smiling, gesturing conversationally and after a moment, the lady starts typing in details. After a few more moments, however, her smile falls and she excuses herself. Dan nods and smiles and waits, but as soon as she has disappeared he begins to casually walk away from the desk, all pretense of humour gone. The office door swings open to reveal several heavily armed security guards, but by the time they have come around the desk, Dan has long up and run off-screen. They swiftly follow his path, and as the last guard exists the frame and a siren begins to shriek, the footage comes to an awkward halt, immortalising the confused faces of waiting passengers.

“Where’s the rest of it?” Just sitting here, watching a screen leaves Phil itching; needing to be out of this chair, out of this suffocating pleasant office. Dan is out there and alive and he needs Phil’s help. “What happens next?” 

“That’s it I’m afraid! Artemis exits the shot in the upper left quadrant and, as you saw, is pursued by airport officials,” G shrugs, raising his hands in apology, “We have nothing else! They didn’t apprehend him, nor did he cross the path of another security camera- as far as they could tell us. It was difficult enough to obtain this footage without explaining the true extent of our situation.” 

“Which is?” 

G's eyes narrow slightly. "What do you know of the Cambridge Five?" 

"I saw the film- they worked for us but were actually giving the Russians information? But that was ages ago!" 

"One of our greatest failures- and so well publicised! We had a solid identification on four members and we thought we had the fifth- but then it appeared that there were a great deal many more parties involved- it may be that we never fully appreciate the extent of their impact on our intelligence." 

Phil frowns.  

"But what has this got to do with Dan?"  

"Patience, Mr Lester. This is a long story and I cannot tell you all the details for many reasons, but I will tell you that in the late 1980's, it was believed that we had uncovered the final key member of the Cambridge Five, hidden cleverly in Moscow, beyond our national reach." 

"But you're MI6- don't you just go on in anyway, isn't that the point of spies?"  

G coughs loudly and then clears his throat.  

"We are primarily an organisation for collecting and interpreting intel but yes, as you say, we have agent who will sometimes take action, where the crown considers it appropriate." 

Phil’s mouth drops just a little. "The actual Queen? Cool."  

"Indeed." He leans back a little, reminiscing. "There was an apartment block on Kashirskoye Highway, near the centre of Moscow. Two of our agents were going to meet our informant, who would pass on the location and necessary details of the target, so we could apprehend them with little fuss or commotion. Alas, things did not go according to plan. The target was far more connected than we anticipated and managed to blow up the entire building, taking out our two agents and the informant. There were a series of bombings at the time and this one in particular was not noticed generally to be anything more than another attack made by extremists- but we have always believed that the target used this unstable time as a cover for his actions, and have no idea how many other hits were peformed in this method. However, to out greatest surprise, and delight, there was one survivor from the ruined mission. The son of out two agents, who they'd brought along to strengthen their cover as a family on holiday-" 

Phil barely dares to ask, but he must.   

"Dan?"  

G nods.  

"Daniel Howell, son of two of the greatest agents we've ever had. He was a secret they held close, to protect him from being used as leverage, and from the volatile world of espionage. Their suggestion, with my approval, was to bring him to Moscow as cover mainly to bypass border officials and leave him with backup agents as they undertook the mission further north." 

"They were really going to bring their son somewhere so dangerous!?" 

"They'd done far more challenging things before- and it had been their suggestion. I was the only one informed of his true identity, and when the agents found him in the rubble following the unexpected explosion, it was clear that our cover had not been as flawless as we'd hoped. We brought Mr Howell back home and found suitable parents to raise him. But he was old enough to understand what had happened- to his parents and to his previous life. We couldn’t keep him away from our world, despite initial attempts.”

“But he must have been, what, six year old? Seven at most! What do you mean couldn’t keep him out?”

With a small chuckle, G replies, “Believe me, I often wondered just how much his parents had managed to teach him during those years where only they knew he existed. He had come to my office just once, after he returned from Moscow, when I explained to him what was going to happen. We didn’t want to put him in any more danger by associated to anything related to this agency, particularly me, and I planned on never seeing the poor boy again, but then one morning I arrived to find him, wide brown eyes and impish grin, sitting in my office waiting for me. He never would fully explain how he worked out how to break in, suffice to say there were many security changes made that day.”

To Phil’s amusement, it appears that G is torn between being impressed and miffed that a child had outsmarted him. He can’t believe that any of this was Dan, his Dan. It sounds like the life of someone else, taken from a special addition of the newspaper to commemorate their death or something. Despite everything, Phil still sorely wants to believe that this is some big misunderstanding, that’d they’d grab Dan and just go back to the life they lead before, no spies or lying or international affairs. 

“He worked for MI6 over the next four years, although technically he was in training for two of them- we found that his skills were already so keenly developed by his parents there was little need to teach him the basics.”

By this point, Phil is just listening avidly, as the tale is spun out like a TV series. G explains how Dan had been something of a pridogy; success after success had him quickly rising in the ranks as Artemis. As an agent, he had been a quiet achiever, working swiftly and efficiently, but he had always expressed his desire to go back to Russia again. G had not been able to convince him that Russia had no answers for him, and worse that someone would recognise him from his parent’s mission; for four years Dan’s resolve remained firm. In the end, he’d stolen a plane and gone on his own, with another young agent who had trained with him, Seamus. By the time G had realised where they were and sent a rescue team, Seamus was shot dead in the streets and Dan was being beaten up in a basement. It was the beginning of the end- after that he’d taken on a few more missions, but soon was decommissioned and filed for a sleeper position. 

“Sleeper? What’s that?”

“It means we ask them to go on and life a normal life- have friends, find a job, buy a house, whatever they’d normally do if they’d never have met us. There are strict codes on the information they are allowed to divulge of their past, and often we will fill in the details of their family history, past education, and the likes. But a sleeper can always be reactivated, if the need arises for their skills and knowledge.” 

“So did you guys… ‘wake up’ Dan then? Is that why he ran away?”

“No. But I do believe that despite our best efforts to keep his cover safe, someone, or something, _did.”_

Phil jumps a little as the laptop screen is closed with a snap and slipped into a desk draw. There is a pause between the pair; Phil has learnt that Q seems to value waiting over impatience. The director makes a steeple with his fingers and examines Phil over the top of them. 

“I have a proposition for you, Mr Lester. One I anticipate you’ll consider seriously and I greatly hope you will accept.” All warmth has been eviscerated from his voice, each word clipped as it exits his lips. “We find ourselves at rather a dead-end when it comes to Artemis; short of launching a full scale and unfortunately CIA-transparent rescue mission, we are currently unable to safely retrieve him. This is where you come in. I want you to bring Artemis- Mr Howell, back to England. And I want you to leave tomorrow.”  

Here, he pauses, allowing this to settle. Unknown to G, Phil had been waiting for this request from the moment G had invited him to his luxurious office. They’d clearly needed something aside from information from Phil, otherwise why not leave him in the interrogation rooms? But- to actually go see Dan? To help him? It was more than he had anticipated.  

“Of course, I’ll have my tech team outfit you with the newest innovations of-“ 

“I accept.”  

G is momentarily silenced by Phil’s clear quietly spoken words. 

“You do?” 

Phil nods. It seems pointless to waste more time. G wants him to go find Dan and is willing to help him, and there is nothing that Phil desires more. 

“I do. I mean, yes.” He grins despite himself, “Agent Lester at your service! Where do we get started?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MI6 – Military Intelligence: Section 6. Also known as SIS (Secret Intelligence Service). British agency charged with supplying the British Government with foreign intelligence. Founded in 1909, has been an essential resource during the first and second world wars, the cold war period and many other international issues, more recently working on intelligence exchange and counter-terrorism strategies. Headquarters is located on the banks of the River Thames by Vauxhall Bridge, London.  
> Cambridge Five – a spy ring recruited by Soviet Russia to obtain information from Britain SIS during WWII and the 1950’s, with four confirmed members and several other uncovered Soviet spies suspected to have participated in their activities based on confessions and circumstantial cases  
> Russian Apartment Bombings - a series of explosions in 1999, deemed to be linked based on the chemical composition of the bombs and the similarities of targets: weakest points of large apartment buildings, detonated at night to cause maximum civilian casualties. There were many other linked actions and groups, and while there were court rulings and convictions in 2002, there are still multiple suspected reasons for the events.  
> QAC – questioning and incarceration  
> UTP – unknown to public


	12. I Can't Help But Wish

Phil follows the echoes of Mairead’s high heels down the empty hallway, not entirely sure what he’s just signed himself up for but determined not to give any impression of doubt all the same. She’s not said a word to him since collecting him from G’s office other than “Follow me, Mr Lester”, and Phil can’t help but suspect that her silence is a matter of voluntary disapproval above anything else.

However, if she is attempting to confuse his orientation enough to ensure that he could never find his way back to where they started, her convoluted twisting and turning down a labyrinth of corridors and stairwells has more than successfully left Phil in a position of having absolutely no idea which direction he is facing, how deep below sea level he is and if he’s even still in the same building as he was twenty minutes earlier. Perhaps secret government agencies design their buildings like this for a good reason, he decides. Were he attempting to utilise this chance to learn their building’s layout, his memory and sense of direction would need to be improved by tenfold.

They finally step into an elevator and out of the fifty or so blank buttons, Mairead selects one on the left side close to the floor. Phil decides to try to at least memorise it’s position, in case it might be important, but before he can count the precise position, Mairead reaches across and flips the emergency stop switch, plunging the elevator into darkness, with only the soft glow of a red light left for Phil to catch the contours of her sculpted face in.

"Why-"

"I need to check." She doesn’t specify what it is she needs to check, but her tone is enough to make Phil stay silent for the moment. A few heavy heartbeats later, she speaks again, still facing the elevator doors and almost articulating the words to their reflective, metal surface.

"Why are you doing this?"

"What?" She glares at him, and he tries again, "Excuse me?"

"Why are you volunteering- do you realise how dangerous this is? It’s not like the movies or the video games; the people we deal with here are aggressive, they are ruthless and they’re not going to care if you’re some lovestruck boy on an adventure, they will not hesitate to torture you, hurt you and absolutely obliterate you if given the smallest chance, so tell me Mr Lester, why on earth would you willingly offer yourself up for what will most likely be a venture ending in your own, violent death, without so much as a pause to consider the consequences?"

"I-" The words falter behind his lips. His determination persists, but he can’t form an answer to her question that doesn’t sound immature or foolhardy.

She’s right, in a way. He never really thought of death or injury in the moments before he accepted G’s proposal. A horrific montage of his own body, shot and slice and destroyed by masked perpetrators briefly flashes before his eyes, but he shakes it off. Taking a deep breath, he gives her the best answer he can.

"I didn’t need to consider the consequences. It’s Dan, I’ll do anything to help him, always."

A lengthy pause hangs over the pair, Phil waiting impatiently for the reprimand to come, but it never does. Instead, Mairead eventually leans over and flicks back the emergency switch, bathing them in light as the elevator rumbles to a start once more. Phil breathes a silent sigh of relief; apparently his answer was passable.

However, just before they step out of the elevator, Mairead stretches out one hand to stop the doors from closing, barring Phil’s exit.

"I believe you, not that I think bravery is an equal for reasoning and intelligence, but I do believe you."

Phil eyes her, watching her steady gaze seemingly penetrate into his mind, and before long he has to look away. But she’s not finished.

"I know that you won’t listen to me," Phil makes a noise of protest but she continues, "And this probably won’t stop you making foolish, dangerous decisions- but always consider the consequences. It’s all very well to say you’ll do anything for someone, but you can end up only hurting them more, only making things worse, if you don’t approach everything with a critical eye and a cautious mind. Do you understand?"

Phil nods and her arm moves down, allowing them both to step out into the corridor. As if nothing had happen, she sets off at a striking pace, with Phil half-jogging to keep up.

They finally stop outside an oddly warped metal door, which looks as if something ran into it at a high speed from the inside. Mairead raises an eyebrow, but says nothing and pushes the door open.

"Miss Tran? I’ve brought our latest recruit and I think he’s going to need all the help you can give him."

Phil is too busy staring around in wonder to notice the insult slipped into her statement. The walls of the room are lined with a mess of benches and computers, crammed next to each other with robotics, wiring and flashing devices scattered over a table in the middle. The first word that comes to mind is ‘chaos’, soon followed by a mixture of amusement and wonder as his gaze is directed up to the ceiling, following the voice that replies.

"We have a new recruit? Man, no one ever tells me anything around here!" The Australian accent comes floating down from a small agent clad in black combat gear, presumably Miss Tran, decked out in camouflage gear and apparently able to climb on ceilings using whatever kind of material was covering her hands and feet, makes her way across the ceiling and down the wall, jumping the last meter before turning around to greet them, sweeping a veil of black, straight hair out of her eyes.

"Oh wow, and cute too! I’m Nat," She gives Phil a little wave, "I’m the tech and weaponry girl. I’m guessing I’ll be kitting you out with some field action gear?" She glances over at Mairead for confirmation, already tapping away at a small screen attached to her wrist as she does.

Mairead nods, “But absolutely no arms for this one, just tracking and stealth for Mr. Lester.” Nat pouts but turns her full attention to the tiny screen, flicking through screens attentively for a few moments before holding it up to Phil’s face.

"I’m going to need to you display your eye in front of this for a few moments, try not to blink or get too excited." Phil arches his neck forward obediently, trying his best to keep his eye open, feeling the itchy tears forming at the very thought.

"Get too excited?" He queries.

"Dilates the pupil and messes up with my reading," Nat sighs, "You wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve hoped and prayed my reading would be messed up, some of the guys and girls who get sent my way for their field kits, but I guess it’s this horrid uniform that just interferes with my undeniable good looks." Phil almost squints at her, it’s hard to tell if she’s being sarcastic or not, but then he remembers his orders and tries his hardest to keep still and not dilate his pupils.

Eventually, the screen gives a shrill beep and Nat pulls it away, muttering her thanks, and switches over to a larger computer, typing speedily and talking as she goes.

"With the data I’ve taken off your iris and retina, I’m just putting together a pair of lenses which should be unnoticeable to the untrained eye, but should give you at least good comms and GPS, or good enough given that the look I’m getting says we have to have you out of here in the next ten minutes, which means no microprogramming once again," Mairead coughs pointedly, but Nat doesn’t miss a beat, "Which I don’t mind, of course, I don’t mind at all, it’s not as if I’ve developed this technology to be used to create mind-blowingly awesome gear that could advance intelligence agents into the world of the future and render them uncatchable, undetectable.."

The printer beside her computer whirrs into action and a transparent sheet runs beneath the laser. Ripping off her black gloves, she pulls on a pair of white, silken ones instead and presses out two small circles from the page.

"These are your new eyes. My eyes. Do you wear contacts normally Mr. Lester?"

"Yes, sometimes, when I can’t be bothered wearing my glasses- and it’s Phil, please." He reaches up to pull out his own contact lenses to show her. Taking it from him, she holds the thin film up to the light.

"Ah, I see. I’ll have to account for your prescription then." She turns back to the computer, adding in strings of formulations that Phil can’t even attempt to understand. He watches, impressed, as her hands fly over the keys, eyes flicking around the screen, catching patterns and variables as they pass and editing her own work to tailor it to his needs.

"How did you even end up here?"

She sends him a look, but keeps typing. “By here I’m guessing you mean stuck in a basement revolutionising technology and being constantly underappreciated- well after I got kicked out of ASIO there was a fair amount of headhunting that went down and I did have a lovely stay in Washington with some inviting offers from several acronyms, but then I came across to London and they offered me a deal I couldn’t refuse.” She grins back across at Phil, but won’t offer anything else until Mairead joins in.

"Miss Tran manages to rake up nearly three billion dollars worth of fines from internet torrents, as well as a Chilean warrant for her death, and we offered to clear that debt." She manages to keep her tone neutral, but there’s a suggestive smirk lurking in the corners of her lips.

"For which I am super grateful, of course." Nat holds out a tray with one hand, two contact lenses lying unassuming on its surface, and a mirror with the other. "I’m sure you can do this bit yourself." He can, and is very glad when he manages to get the lenses in on the first attempt. Looking around, Phil isn’t sure what he expected, but it doesn’t appear that anything has changed.

"Are they switched on?" He asks, and Nat hands him what looks like an iPhone.

"That’s the beautiful of these lovelies, you can operate them entirely from this phone here- each app I’ve designed has an effect on the screen of your lenses, but to the outside world it just looks like you’re playing on your phone. It’s also voice activated for emergency apps, such as call, video, medical advice and navigation." They flick through the different programs, and as each one is selected, Phil’s visual input changes entirely, from a thermal reading which plunges the world into vivid colours, hot red glowing from Nat and Mairead, and the heavy computers sitting under the desks; to a navigation system which can switch between a virtual guide before his eyes to a wider view of the area on a marked map.

"Just remember how to call, film and you should be fine." Nat hands him a small handbook that outlines each of the apps in more detail.

"How do I turn them off?" Phil blushes slightly, but Nat is unfazed.

"They are constantly on standby if you have no apps open- we can’t see through them or hear anything, but we should still be able to track their location to within around 30 meters, just in case you can’t respond to us." Now she pulls out a pocket knife, and Phil can almost hear Mairead bristle behind him, but Nat reassures her- "It’s just defensive stuff, nothing anyone would consider arms!"

Phil takes the pocketknife from her, pulling open each arm, examining the contents. The first two are regular blades, such as you might find on any pocketknife, followed by what Nat shows him to be a miniature blow dart, a compartment for darts, a pair of scissors, a lockpick, a microfilament, a and a small smoke bomb, which she demonstrated could be detached and thrown within six seconds in order to gain cover to escape.

Flicking through the different arms, Phil tries to memorise the information Nat is giving him carefully, wanting to put this equipment to best use. She grabs a backpack from underneath one of the benches and starts shoving items into it: a compact waterproof jacket, a new passport, wallet filled with some crash and a shiny new credit card (which Mairead reliably informs him will be tracked), and earplugs- “For the plane, or explosions, they just seem to come in handy,” Nat shrugs.

There’s a pause as he slips in pocketknife and closes the backpack, watched carefully by two sets of eyes, until Nat gasps loudly, slapping a hand to her forehead.

"The cone of silence!" She scurries over to a filing cabinet, pulling out wiring. "Do you have something I can rig up for you, something you carry like a charm or jewellery?" Phil pats down his pockets, but there’s nothing there- everything was taken when he came in, and he was never really the jewellery type to start with.

"Oh!" Phil crouches down, pulling off his left shoe and, to the surprise of his two onlookers, pulls out a small stuffed lion toy. "I completely forgot about Lion!" Nat grabs the toy from his hand, eyeing it off and giving it a quick sniff, before tossing it down onto a bench.

"This will do perfectly! Give me a moment-" Before Phil has even finished pulling his shoe back on, Nat is slicing open the side of Lion with a small scalpel, using delicate fingers to push a small electronic chip in beside the fluff. Phil gives out a small noise of protest, but Nat hushes him and begins sewing the yellow fabric back together, presenting a full and seemingly undamaged Lion back to Phil within moments.

Phil takes the toy gingerly, turning it over between his fingers. “What did you do?” Nat leans in and squeezes Lion’s body firmly. A static sound emits from beneath the fabric and a flash of blue light extends out from their hands, expanding to form a small dome of shimmering blue, encapsulating them both.

"No one outside this can hear anything we say," Nat says, with a lopsided grin, "Not even Mary Poppins, and she’s definitely within earshot!" Phil looks back over his shoulder at Mairead, who is glaring right back with pursed lips. Nat cocks an eyebrow, "See? It’s hardly subtle but handy in a bathroom cubicle, or photo booth- private conversations anywhere you need! I’m working on the blue still.."

Phil reaches out, his finger meeting the flickering dome and slipping through, a faint tingling sensation rippling over his skin. He was going to say something about things not possibly getting any stranger, but decided to resist the temptation, so said instead- “Thank you for all your help, I think I’m gonna need it.”

Nat shrugs, “Got to agree with you there! But hey, seeing as we have this moment alone,” She smirks at him, speaking softly despite the fabricated privacy, “It might be worth noting that if you run into trouble, there are some brothers I know, John and Hank Green. There’s a contact on your phone called Giraffe Sex-“

Phil chokes on his laugh, “What?”

"It’s a thing," Nat replies, shaking it off, "Just- call them if you need help, if you need anything. They’re really, really good at what they do." Phil nods and Nat goes to squeeze Lion again, but a moment before she does, her glance flits upwards once more to meet his eyes, and she mutters, "No one here even knows that they exist." A moment later the shield is down and Phil takes Lion in one hand, the backpack with his other. He desperately wants to ask what she meant by ‘if you need anything’, but knows the moment has gone and passed.

"Well, I think that’s all I can give you!" Nat shoots Mairead a look before leaning in closer, lowering her voice, "Unless of course I can somehow convince them to let you take arms into the field, because just between you and me I’ve been working on the most excellent little handgun that fold up into a tiny thing, no bigger than your middle finger, and if you get caught you can hide it right up your-"

"Miss Tran! That’s more than enough for now, don’t you agree?" Mairead looks more amused than cross, but Nat concedes, passing the backpack and Lion back to Phil, holding his hand for a moment longer than needed.

"Good luck. If you make it back alive, we should hang- as long as we’re not breaking some international law or something by doing so." Phil smiles properly, the offer seems genuine, and Nat has been a refreshing surprise in the chaos of the past day.

"I’m gonna hold you to that," He replies, and she giggles, then winks, before Mairead grabs his arm and half drags him out of the lab, muttering something about timetables and overtime and babysitting, but Phil is watching Nat make her way back up the wall again and doesn’t care if they spent to long in her lab, it was well worth it. With her equipment on hand, suddenly the possibility of finding Dan is a little more real.

The winding walk back upstairs is hardly as long as Phil expected it to be, his mind wandering as he flicks through the different apps, stumbling across what appears to be a vintage version of the game ‘Snake’. He definitely needs to get back in contact with Nat if- once he returns.

Rather than heading back to the sumptuous office from earlier, Mairead leads him to a sparsely decorated room, with long tables lining the walls and a collection of suited men and women, milling around in pairs or small groups, discussing secrets in hushed tones.

They cross the room, Mairead nodding to several people as they pass, and find G at the far end of the room, talking into his mobile phone. He smiles at their arrival and quickly hangs up the phone.

"So, we’re ready?" The rest of the room falls into silence as he speaks, and Phil nods. It seems like they are wasting no time with further formalities as G opens his phone again and barks some orders into the receiver. Phil pulls of his backpack, dumping on the nearby table and leaning against it with a sigh. It’s been a very long night.

"Excellent," Hanging up the phone, G rubs his hands together, looking happier than a leech at a blood bank, "Well I think everything is ready now, we can get you on a plane and over to the East Coast before the night is through!" One broad hand gestures to the door where Mairead is waiting; "Our plane is primed and ready to fly as soon as you are aboard, everything you’ll need including the information packs will be ready for you to look at on the trip over, but I recommend getting as much rest as you can, while you can." He chuckles, a sentiment Phil can’t quite bring himself to replicate, but he takes advantage of the pause to ask a question.

"What about my friends? Can I say goodbye to them? And tell them what’s happening.." Phil can just imagine the grilling Carrie will give him if he disappears without at least some form of explanation, and that alone is enough to inspire him to fight for a last meeting; he avoids thinking about the fact that it could well be their last meeting. Those kinds of thoughts won’t help him now.

But G shakes his head, “Not enough time,” he says, with frantic gestures and big words, but Phil doesn’t relent, and is eventually handed a pad and a pen, with a warning of not to mention anything about Dan.

It takes a moment to work out what he wants to say; given that it’s almost guaranteed that others will read the note before it reaches his friends. G sighs pointedly, lifting up his arm to check the watch for the third time in the past minute, and Phil scrawls out a messy message on the embossed, heavy paper.

Hi guys,

So I’m off to America! Sorry I’m not telling you this in person, apparently everything is in motion and there’s no time, but I hope they’re treating you well and maybe we can all leave and go back to life sometime soon, I hope we can.

Don’t worry about me, I promise I’m not doing anything stupid (stop frowning Carrie, I mean it), and I’ll be back before you even realize I was gone! I’ve got to dash but I’m thinking of you and look forward to seeing you soon.

Love,

Phil

He passes the note to G’s outstretched hand, although he’d much prefer deliver it himself, and picks up the phone and backpack off the table. He’s not ready at all, but there’s no turning back now so he may as well pretend to be.

"Good luck," G says, in a fatherly attempt at comfort, "We are all right behind you, as planned. It’s all in the information pack and remember, if you’re in danger or hurt, just call for back up and we’ll be right there." Phil nods, and accepts a firm handshake from the older man. "Nothing is more important here than your safety." Somehow, this part is less convincing, but Phil nods again all the same.

"Thank you for all your help, I guess I’ll see you in a bit!" Phil smiles and turns to head to the door, locking eyes with Mairead and trying not to let his confident façade slip. He manages to make it all the way to the door and, pushing it open, out onto what looks to him to be a private airport tarmac, without anyone stopping him, and so he keeps going. Hearing that Mairead following after him, he follows the fluorescent markers on the concrete. If he doesn’t look back, then there’s no chance he’ll start running back too.

He’s only taken maybe ten steps before he looks down at his hand and realises that there’s something essential missing. Phil tosses his backpack to the ground and searches through it quickly, but Lion is nowhere to be found. The memory of placing the stuffed toy on a polished wooden table floats and he gets to his feet, calling out to Mairead to wait up for him, and manages to get back to the door just in time to catch it before it fully closes.

He pushes it open, ready to explain his mistake, only to quickly silence himself at the sight that meets him. It’s nothing dramatic, or even particularly cruel, just a party of suited officials, walking out of a meeting that has long concluded with Phil’s departure. They haven’t noticed his reappearance, but it’s when he’s almost about to say something that he watches G drop the note he gave him, folded in two, covered in his own scrawling handwriting, into the rubbish bin, before leaving the room.

There’s no malice to his actions, no particular grudge, but it’s only as he watches the paper fall into the wire basket and the man he tried to trust depart, not even looking back to see where the note fell. It’s insignificant- an act maintained only as long as was required to secure what he wanted- and nothing more than that.

A heartbeat later and they notice Phil, standing frozen just inside the doorway, unsure how to process the confirmation of his utter isolation, and when the armed men start yelling at him, he does not protest or defend himself.

After retrieving Lion on his behalf, the soldiers push him out the door roughly this time, and it slams shut heavily, the loud click of a lock confirming that he won’t be exiting by that route again. One hand lifts up to rest on the cool metal, as Phil takes a moment to breath. This changes nothing. Stick to the plan, which is to find Dan and bring him back. He can’t afford to worry about his friends now; he doesn’t have that option.

When he finally turns around, any trace of a smile is completely gone, but Mairead hardly seems surprised. She doesn’t offer any comfort or even acknowledge the events of the last minute; instead she turns on her heel, marching towards a small plane waiting for them on the runway.

Perhaps it’s not an unexpected turn of events for her, a job in the intelligence agency must prepare you for a variety of unexpectedly nasty scenes, and with an absence of blood or death, Phil supposes the disregard for his wishes is hardly devastatingly shocking. The wind whips through his hair, messing it in front of his eyes, reminding him of how long it feels like been since he was outside.

Following after her steady paces, picking up his backpack on the way, Phil finally catches up and walks besides her, climbing the stairs to find himself in a comfortable cabin, with several large leather chairs lining the windows, far enough apart that every passenger could lie down at ease. It could easily be a millionaire’s private jet, if not for the lifeless colour scheme, the smell of disinfectant and the two officers with handguns seated motionless in the back seats, watching their new arrivals with little reaction.

Mairead stops him at the second chair to the left. Without touching him, she steps a fraction closer, so that Phil is certain she must be able to feel her breath on his cheek, but he doesn’t budge.

"Always, always, consider the consequences, Mr Lester.” Her words are a quiet murmur, but clear as crystal, and he nods once, meeting her eyes, hoping she can somehow tell him something else, something more concrete and helpful, but a moment later she is gone and sitting primly in the seat behind him, and so he follows suit.

On the desk in front of him are a compact laptop computer and a pile of notes, printed on the all-too- familiar government paper that Phil has developed a particular loathing for of late. His name is printed in watermark across each of the pages, a safety measure against leaks, and as he flips through he finds maps and markings, presumably where they suspect to find Dan, perhaps possible sightings, as well as information on how to approach a hostile suspect, the different signals to send to back up teams, dependent on the situation and the likelihood of success.

He moves those to the side- with a seven hour flight, he’ll have plenty of time for reading later- and opts instead to stare out the window. He still doesn’t want to think of what’s to come, either way, it’s a terrifying prospect. The only questioning he’ll allow himself is wondering what on earth he’s got himself into, and not for the first time.

The view out from behind the glass is marred by night, unpromising for any final friendly sights. It’s still dark, the longest night of his life perhaps, but sunrise is hinting on the edge of the horizon.


End file.
